


The Vault of Harmonia

by aiIenzo



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Atlas Rhys, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Eridian Bullshit, Jack is emotionally stunted, Multi, Rhys is a smart boi, Thanks for coming to my Tech Talk, mild AU, this is not abandoned i'm just a disaster, violence as an aphrodisiac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 118,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiIenzo/pseuds/aiIenzo
Summary: Corporate moguls Handsome Jack and Rhys Northcutt must reach a mutually beneficial accord once the wastelands of Pandora reveal untapped potential. But despite the fierce control both of them try to exhibit over their shared discovery, forces far more powerful then man-made rivalry still have own their parts to play.(Featuring Fiona, the long-suffering beacon of support; Tim, the man who still dares to hope; and many more of your Pandoran favorites)





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> First Borderlands fic! If you're willing to take this journey with me, please strap in, because I already have 100,000 words written, and it's nowhere near complete. I'm planning on a bi-weekly posting schedule, but that's likely to change to something more frequent once I wrap everything up. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta yukiayanami, who, quite literally, saved this work from becoming another abandoned idea in a google doc. I owe her so much.
> 
> (All chapter titles and opening italics are lyrics from Atmosphere, whose music was integral in inspiring this fic)

///

_"They've arrived, and they've landed safe and sound_

_Better try and take 'em out before they make your saviors proud"_

///

 

 

Tuesdays, much like Mondays, were a steaming pile of skag shit.

Jack stared sullenly out of his floor-to-ceiling window, sneering at the wasteland below him as his fingers tightened reflexively on the railing. _Fucking_ Pandora, the leech of a planet. It hogged his resources, his time, his _money,_ and most importantly, his attention. He’d just lost twelve men in an impromptu bandit raid -- and three of them had been archaeologists sent from R&D, who were annoyingly difficult to replace.

He was halfway through considering firing a round of moonshot blitzes into the fucking desolate shit stain that hovered below Helios, just for some cathartic relief, when his ECHO chirped at him.

_“Sir, you have an incoming transmission."_

Jack scowled harder at the interruption, and answered back brusquely. “Sweetheart, I pay you to intercept calls like this so I don’t _have_ incoming transmissions. Tell them to fuck off, I’ve got a meeting with Internal Security in half an hour.”

His PA wasn’t impressed. She rarely was. “You’re going to want to take this, Jack,” she informed him, none too gently, and Jack’s grip tightened even further, narrowing his eyes as she elaborated. “Representatives from Atlas just entered atmo, and they’re requesting an audience.”

He cursed and accepted the call.

Fucking _Tuesdays._

 

///

 

“It’s a lot of yellow, isn’t it?”

Fiona’s heeled boots clicked menacingly down the hallway, commanding the attention of anyone within the vicinity. Her deep red waistcoat clashed against the reflective chrome of the halls, but she wore the distinction proudly, presenting each curious, slightly awestruck employee with a knowing smirk as way of greeting. A peacock amongst pigeons.

“Knowing Handsome Jack, I’d say he’d argue it’s _gold,_ not yellow.”

“Hush,” Rhys chastised Sasha, sending an amused glace behind him where the two sisters walked in tandem, directly at his heels. “I told you to get all your snark out this morning. What happened?”

Sasha shrugged, adjusting her dark blue and silver headband -- the new Atlas colors. “Look, you can’t keep giving me these unreasonable deadlines. ‘ _All the snark out by morning,’_ I can’t make that happen, and you know it.”

“Don’t even get me started on Rhys’ unreasonable _anything_ ,” Vaughn interrupted, scoffing at Rhys’ side. “Do you know how many meetings I’ve had to reschedule this week?”

“Vaughn--”

“Twenty-seven, Rhys. Twenty-seven!” He proclaimed in hushed tones as he pushed at his glasses, glaring at an employee that dared to give him the once-over. “Hell, if this doesn’t go over well, please use me as a human shield against Jack, because bleeding out on the floor would be a much better use of my time than siphoning off every department head that calls while we’re out here, insisting they have urgent news.”

“Did it ever occur to you that they might actually _have_ urgent news?” Rhys mused, fiddling with the deep orange buttons on his vest and ensuring they were all lined up immaculately. “They _are_ the department heads for a reason.”

“They just want to brown-nose,” Vaughn corrected, his expression crestfallen at the allocation of their financial assets. “--And considering the budget increase you always give them, I-- oh, heads up. Welcoming party.”

Vaughn promptly shut his mouth as they continued forward past the docking bay entrance, where a young woman with bright blue eyes was waiting for them, a lone pillar of stillness that stood out against the activity of the bay around her. She wore a form-fitted black dress, with Hyperion yellow stripes that ran parallel along her arms, further accentuating the striking color of her irises. Rhys was quick to notice how endearingly young she seemed, and the smile across her face was surprisingly genuine. She grasped a small bag in one hand and held the other out with a professional enthusiasm as their small party approached.

Rhys reached out to shake her extended hand, his eyes flicking up past the _adorable_ dusting of freckles across her face, before landing her gaze directly.

He had been told many times before that his prolonged eye contact was both unnecessary, and, in Fiona’s tactful words, “creepy as hell”. But the woman met his stare with equal intensity, softened only by the faint blush that blossomed across her cheeks as he flashed her a winning, Atlas-marketing-approved smile.

“Mr. Northcutt, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” she began, shaking Rhys’ hand with a surprising firmness. “My name is Angel, and I’ll be escorting your party to our executive guest suite. I expect your journey has been taxing, and you’ll have an opportunity to rest until our formal meeting in just a few hours.”

“Angel,” Rhys tried softly, testing the feel of the name on his tongue as he respectfully restrained himself from attempting an ECHOread on her. Angel smiled brilliantly as her name passed from his lips, and Rhys continued, his confidence bolstered. “Thank you for the courtesy, and for agreeing to meet us on such short notice. I trust our arrival wasn’t a burden?”

Angel turned and motioned for them to follow her, falling into step beside Rhys as they began the short walk up the stairs towards the mezzanine that overlooked the central HUB. His entourage followed dutifully behind him, remaining uncharacteristically silent, but Rhys had no doubts to the looks they were likely shooting one another, borderline telepathic in a way only a family could manage.

Angel’s dress didn’t sway as she moved, just as pristine and angular as all of Hyperion’s assets, and Rhys had to tear his thoughts away from the wardrobe discomfort to focus on Angel’s answer.

“Not at all, Mr. Northcutt. We hold Atlas in very high esteem here, and you are our most welcomed guests,” Angel assured them, and Rhys couldn’t sense any fabrication in the rehearsed words. Angel was either very good at lying, or very good at being another yes-man lackey. He wasn’t sure which he would have preferred.

Sasha let out a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort, but Rhys twitched his head minutely in her direction, and she bottled it up, maintaining her neutral business facade when Angel looked back at them with a proud smile.

“Your suite boasts a five-bedroom arrangement, and you are free to request anything we have aboard the station to make your stay more comfortable.” There was a pause, a flash of something undefinable on Angel’s face, but she continued with as much pep as she’d had initially. “I must ask, however, that you remain within the HUB, business district, or residential area for the immediate future, until Handsome Jack dictates what your security clearance should allow.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rhys informed her immediately, and he didn’t miss the small tells of her shoulder muscles loosening slightly in relief. “We’re not here to snoop through your development floors, and our intentions are honorable. We’re more than happy to wait in the suite until our meeting this afternoon, if that should help to appease Handsome Jack’s concerns.”

They passed the balcony of the mezzanine, being led discreetly towards the glass elevators that lined the wall ahead, but Rhys snuck a quiet peek of the activity below. Men and women in suits were milling around the HUB, flashing new gadgets at one another with the smug, pompous air of someone who’d never had to scrounge for food or comfort in their life. A distraught woman was screaming profanities at a bot, who had diminished itself to half its size in a pathetic sulk, cowering the same way an abused dog might. The sight churned up enough anger in the pit of Rhys’ stomach that he pulled his attention away to school his face into something more passive as Angel turned back to him, her complexion slightly ashen and embarrassed.

“It should help to ease the tension, yes. Forgive me, Mr. Northcutt. I don’t mean to imply--”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rhys smiled, stopping in front of the elevator that Angel led them to with all the dignified grace of a charming, relatable executive. “No apologies are in order.”

Angel nodded her head in gracious understanding, and swiped her keycard for clearance to what Rhys assumed was the upper levels of Helios. They stepped aboard gingerly as the doors dinged open, delicately trying to avoid mimicking a herd of cattle, and Rhys waited until the glass doors shut them in together before clearing his throat.

“Now that formalities are out of way, I have to ask… any chance you guys have meat that _doesn’t_ come from Pandora? I’ve about had my fill of rakk stew.”

“Chewy little bastards,” Fiona muttered under her breath as the elevator began its buttery ascent, and Angel allowed herself a laugh that seemed to surprise even herself.

“I had no idea you had been planetside recently,” she confessed, giving their group a quick once-over, as if confused as to why they weren’t covered in dirt and entrails. “I’ll have some quality options sent over to your room immediately, as well as a bottle of wine. Courtesy of Hyperion, of course.”

“Any chance Handsome Jack’s a whisky connoisseur?” Sasha piped up curiously, and Rhys nudged her, though the corners of his lips twitched in barely restrained humor.

Angel took the comment in stride, flashing another gorgeous, too-genuine-for-cutthroat smile. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am. Oh, here’s our floor.”

The doors opened into yet another chrome hallway, though this one boasted a flowering of color. The banister had been lined with plants and flora whose vines yearned their way heavenward towards the artificial light, giving the corridor a distinctly inviting look that Rhys could almost guarantee wasn’t extended to lower-tier residents. He stepped out after Angel, and his entourage followed, eyes focused and set to avoid giving away any unsettled dispositions.

“These are our executive levels,” Angel explained, back to her pre-recorded lines that seemed hardwired to accompany a tasteful wave of her arm as they made their way down the shining halls. “You’ll find yourself in like company here, but if anything feels disconcerting, your accommodations can be rearranged.

Once outside their door, Angel passed him four key cards, embossed and microchipped and very likely formatted to transmit every word said back to Jack’s office, but Rhys took them politely anyway. She prolonged her departure, assuring them that a team would be delivering food and drink shortly, and if they needed anything -- anything at _all_ \-- not to hesitate contacting her.

It took several rounds of expressed gratitude before Rhys was finally able to shut the door on her retreating back, but the moment they were enclosed in their own space, the atmosphere changed. He dropped his straight, professional stance into something more relaxed and tossed the keycards to Sasha, who quickly removed one of her earrings and opened the clasp on it, pulling out a small, flat device. She fiddled with it for a moment, finding the miniscule switch to turn the damn thing on, before gently placing it and the cards in a drawer together, smirking in satisfaction

“Make sure it’s close enough,” Vaughn advised. “It’s only got about half a foot of range.”

“I know how the damn EMP works,” she snapped back, but it lacked any heat, and told of a friendly, long-term banter.

Rhys quickly scanned the room with his ECHOeye, looking for signs of technology or monitoring systems that didn’t fit amongst the normal, executive-level accommodations. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he let the remainder of his guards drop.

“Alright, boys and girls,” He sighed, throwing himself bodily onto the bed that had been fully lined in exquisite, pristine sheets. “Time to relax. Someone pull up the ECHOnet on that big-ass projector.”

Fiona raised her eyebrow at him. “You don’t seem nervous, Rhys. There’s a solid chance we’re all about to get airlocked, you know. Handsome Jack isn’t known for his collection of olive branches.”

Rhys scoffed. “Please. I'm far past the point where Hyperion impresses me. They’re just one more corporation, trying to make it in the world. And Handsome Jack is just another me, whatever his tactics may be. Oh, don’t let me fall asleep, either -- I don’t want to have to redo my hair.”

Fiona glared at him, but let the argument drop.

 

///

 

_Atlas._

Jack bristled, as though even the inscribed word materializing in his mind inflicted a physical pain. He’d thought he’d seen the last of them when they’d abandoned Pandora after General Knoxx and Pollux ate shit, yet here he was, about to meet with the fuckfaced COO of a should-be-dead manufacturing company.

Technically speaking, he was _arguably_ Atlas’s president after he’d murdered the former title-holder and forcibly taken the complete value of their stock (with a bit of help from that psycho Nakayama). But that had been a trophy victory more than anything, keeping the company’s deed in ever-expanding victory cabinet, permanently declaring them as nothing but another notch in his belt. He’s known for years they were still operating on the other side of the galaxy, but cleaning them out on Elpis had been his priority -- anything outside of Pandora’s immediate system was a backburner concern.

And honestly, he didn’t mind Altas’ competition (and profits) over in the Edens -- hell, some healthy capitalism was always good for business and morale; it ensured Hyperion’s own departments were always trying to outdo whatever else was out there -- but here? No. Atlas absconded with whatever dignity they had left well over eight years ago, and Jack wasn’t anything if not territorial.

Pandora was _his_ pet project, and he’d be damned if a group of crotchety old board members tried to weasel their way into slicing off a piece of the planet’s Eridium bounty. He hadn’t spoken to Atlas' new COO, Henderson, in well over three years, when Jack graciously let him live after the mutually beneficial decision was made that Atlas and their merchandise stay at least three systems away if they wanted to avoid the same wrath that had descended upon the remaining Crimson Lance soldiers. And now, what, they wanted to alter the deal?

No. No, scathing refusal was the way to go here. Atlas could fuck right off, or they could burn, and not a goddamn thing could change his mind.

He was leaning uninvitingly against his desk, his disposition hardened and secure when Angel entered. Four figures followed respectfully behind her, their heels clicking gently on the tile, a cacophony of taps that ground further irritation into Jack’s senses. He looked up sharply, his mouth already twitching with the inordinate need to belittle the newest worms that had slithered into his office.

He was expecting -- what was it? -- crotchety old board members, that was it. What he got, was a little nerd with tech glasses, two brazenly dressed women whose eyes were as sharp as their clothes, and one tall fucking glass of water.

God. _Damn._

Jack’s eyes lingered a little too long on the legs hidden underneath smart suit pants, the black waistcoat with blazing orange fasteners riding just above a belt that hid a miniaturized shield. Blue tattoos scandalously peeked out of a black open collar, and one sleeve of his crisp suit jacket had been hemmed at the wrist to allow a silver cybernetic arm complete freedom of movement. There was a neat, contained flash that brought Jack’s gaze up to meet a yellow ECHO-eye, partially hidden under the self-important smirk the man had painted across his face as he met Jack’s gaze confidently, even from a distance.

He tore his eyes away from the unexpected party to glance at Angel, raising his eyebrows as if to say _What the hell is this?!_

Angel shrugged unhelpfully before plastering on a smile.

“Handsome Jack, allow me to introduce Rhys Northcutt, COO of The Atlas Corporation.”

Jack didn’t move, and neither did Rhys. For a moment, they both simply stood their ground, sizing each other up. Two dogs circling the cage, eyeing their opponent and ignoring the bait.

Rhys, however, didn’t seem to mirror Jack’s resolve for acute rudeness. He cleared his throat politely and indicated to the bespectacled man beside him.

“Handsome Jack, this is my Chief Financial Officer, Vaughn Hardwick, and my advisors, Fiona and Sasha Erins. I believe I speak for all of us when I say it's an honor to finally meet you.”

Jack scoffed pointedly, but “Rhys Northcutt” didn’t seem fazed, just kept that annoyingly arrogant smile permanently etched across his face. A face that Jack was having a hard time ignoring due to the shiny little mystery disguising itself as a neural implant. Since when did Atlas have a cybernetics department? What the fuck had that company been doing for the past six years? And who the fuck was this _kid,_ getting badass cybernetic parts when Jack’s own nerds hadn’t drummed up the fusion technology yet?

What kind of _bullshit--_

Ignoring the disapproving glare from Angel, he stowed most of his own questions and brusquely asked, “What happened to Henderson?”

Rhys cocked his head slightly, remaining just formal enough to toe the line of Jack’s inability to get a read on him. Aggravating little shit. “You mean _Gary_ Henderson, I presume?”

“Yes, Gary Henderson, the dickhead I usually have to speak to?” Jack sassed, throwing any potential respect out of the closest proverbial window. “Unless there’s another Henderson that’s curiously absent, while in his stead stands a boy, fresh out of university, looking like he’s choked on as many job interviews as he has dicks? Come on kiddo, where’s the _real_ COO?”

Silence fell around them, broken only by the steady white noise of the water features and Angel’s uncomfortable shifting. One of the women, the smaller one with dreadlocks, moved her hands behind her back softly, but said nothing.

“You’re not the only one with small beginnings, Handsome Jack,” Rhys finally answered, and his voice was mellow and controlled, a stark contrast to his bemused expression. “It just took you a little longer to get to where I am. No shame in that, though.”

Jack’s fingers twitched as the snap-flash of instantaneous rage sizzled across his veins, but before he could reach for the pistol strapped to his thigh holster, something stayed his hand. Some glint of knowledge, of _mettle_ in the boy’s eyes piqued his interest, and the measurable dignity he carried in his own presence was impressive enough that Jack second-guessed his impulsive desire to rip the kid’s throat out for such a comment.

Besides, it had been a long time since anyone outside of Angel dared speak to him in a way that didn’t resemble a stuttering loser halfway through having a stroke, pouring out enough sweat to restock the water tanks, and it was refreshing. Cute, even, as long as the kid didn’t push it.

“You always mouth off to your boss this way?”

“I do,” Rhys answered, without the barest hint of hesitation. “And it’s worked out pretty well for me so far.”

Another stiff silence. Jack’s eyes narrowed, still attempting to get a read on the foreign, alien thing before him, while Rhys met his gaze with an unsettling indifference.

“Henderson and I had an arrangement,” Jack began slowly, slightly taken aback as the corner of Rhys mouth quirked in amusement, and he paused before continuing, “...and it was working out great for both sides, sweetheart. You keep the money flowing on the other end of the galaxy with your silly little housewares and rich-people crap, and I don’t blow up your dinky little headquarters for shits and giggles. We had a good thing going.”

“Oh, I know all about your arrangement with the previous COO,” Rhys clarified, and Jack didn’t understand how someone could be so respectfully _dis_ respectful; like he was a native speaker in smug, but had spent a little too much time on other stations, warping his accent. “And seeing as how Henderson is dead, I’m here to renegotiate.”

A third silence followed, and Angel shifted her weight again, looking anxiously at Jack with an unusual amount of interest. She had always taken his moods in stride, casually stepping over the bodies he’d leave piled by the door, but something about this exchange had her nervous and responsive, and he honed in on it, ready to base his own responses off of what she unknowingly supplied.

Jack looked away from her sharply, before he gave away his own biggest tell. “Mr. Northcutt--”

“Rhys,” the boy interjected easily, hands moving behind his back in a mockery of a well-mannered stance. “Just Rhys, if you would, sir.”

Jack sneered.

“ _Rhys._ Gotta tell ya, kid, I had planned on airlocking the lot of you the moment you walked in the door. But Tuesdays… they’re so fucking _dull,_ you know what I mean? So I’ll indulge you. Give me the pitch, cupcake.”

Rhys’s eyes flashed at the nickname, but the flicker of emotion was gone before Jack could get a proper read on it. The darker haired woman’s eyes were slits of disapproval at Jack’s informal tone, but he ignored her. These Atlas types. Smart enough to watch their tongues, smug enough to judge you for making them do it.

Rhys was studying him carefully, likely weighing the validity of Jack’s statement before speaking.

“I’m requesting permission to renew activity on Pandora.”

“Denied,” Jack snarled, and for a moment the air was sucked out of the room as tensions skyrocketed. Pandora was off limits to anyone but Jack’s own teams, and to suggest otherwise was viewed as criminal activity on the station by anyone that had half an idiot brain.  

Rhys, however, seemed unfazed, and stepped forward to close the distance between himself and Jack to measurable _feet_ rather than yards, and Jack would be annoyed at the proximity if he wasn’t so caught off guard at the kid’s balls. Rhys stopped within arms length and held the palm of his cybernetic hand upwards, allowing the ghost of 3D model to flicker into view.

“If I may?” He asked courteously, raising his eyes to meet Jack’s. Jack stared him down, fingers tapping a brisk, unheard rhythm against the pistol on his thigh, before he nodded curtly. There was an uncomfortable twinge of _something_ in his gut, something unsettling and impassive, and something that he unfortunately couldn’t chalk up _entirely_ to wondering how pretty the kid would look sinking to his knees.  

Jack, fuck it all, was _intrigued._

Rhys’s ECHOeye momentarily gleaned to life, and the model in his hand tripled in size, revealing an exact replica of the planet that hovered below them, lit up various shades of blue and green. “This is Pandora, as we currently know it,” Rhys began casually, as if he weren’t holding a calm conversation with the most notoriously trigger-happy man in the galaxy. “Any green overlay you see is Atlas tech that you’ve either discovered, seized, or blown up.”

“How do you know that?” Jack growled immediately, eyes scanning the green highlight as though it personally betrayed him. “Those records aren’t common knowledge, pal.”

Rhys, for his credit, didn’t even shift his stance. “If you’re implying I hacked your database, you’ll be disappointed. As I told Angel, our business here is innocuous, so if you want to airlock us, you’ll have to find a better reason.”

Jack chewed on his lip, amused despite himself. “Well, you’re pretty to look at, sweetheart, no denying it. What if my reason boils down to how much I’d love to see your frozen face outside my window every morning?”

Rhys met his eyes, finally, and to Jack’s surprise, he didn’t seem put off in the slightest. He considered Jack for a split second, just long enough to avoid having it border on anything outside of professional, before tracking his gaze back to the sphere of light emanating from his palm.

“That’s definitely a better reason,” he agreed lightly. “Though, if you wanted to see my face in the morning, there are other ways of going about it.”

Jack’s smirk died on his lips and his mouth clicked shut, knocked on its ass for the first time in years.

Had he just been _propositioned_?

No one since Nisha had been brazen enough to offer up anything more than a shy smile or batting eye without getting him to make the first move, and even then, they were submissive, seeking hesitant approval in the bedroom much like they did in the boardroom. He’d forgotten what being on the receiving end of no-bars-hold flirtation felt like.

If he hadn’t been getting consistent action, he’d be worried he was losing his touch. There was absolutely no good excuse for an Atlas poster-boy to get a twitch from his dick like that.

He crumpled up the comment and tossed it aside (fully planning on unraveling it later for closer dissection), before motioning a very blatant _get on with it_ with his hands.

“Biometric security,” Rhys responded dutifully, but there was an inclination to the end of his explanation, as though he were questioning why Jack didn’t figure that out on his own, and Jack barely refrained from glassing Rhys with the empty tumbler on his desk.

“Our most expensive equipment is manufactured to respond to the biometric signature of the department heads and key techs,’ Rhys explained further. “Once your boys on the ground started yanking shit around, we got a security ping at headquarters. It took a half a day or so, granted, but we still got a nice breadcrumb trail of Hyperion pillaging.”

Jack was already tallying a list of people he needed to yell at for not doing a thorough scan of all seized equipment. The planetside requisitions department would lose a few fingers, no doubt, and whoever was in charge of the ground team excavation would need to be replaced. Violently. With fanfare.

What little amusement he gained from Rhys’ ill-advised snark was quickly waning at being made a fool of, and his temper was beginning to flare back to life.

“Fucking perfect. Listen,” he snapped, gesturing to the smattering of green on Rhys’ display. “If you’re just here to scrap all your old junk, I’ve got some industrial grade baggies--”

“--And _this,_ ” Rhys continued, as if Jack hadn’t spoken, which further pushed the boundaries of Jack’s patience, “Indicates Atlas tech that is still buried underground, hidden within the wastes, or otherwise untapped.” The sphere in Rhys’ hand blossomed a significant amount of red, trickling through the gaps of green like winding rivers that ended in large pools of abandoned technology.

Jack’s irritation was sapped as the map blared crimson. “What the hell…” He mumbled, leaning down to get a closer look at the model projected from the kid’s palm. “I’ve never gotten a read of any of this stuff.” He paused, weighing his options quickly in his head. “Listen, if you’re fucking with me--”

Rhys gave him a diminutive look, answering far too many questions at once, and Jack glared back, trying to mentally retrace the paths of his surveyors. He’d sent out hundreds of probes and scanners planetwide, and while some of them had returned with the location of buried treasure, as it were, the rest had declared the area free of any lingering Atlas presence.

That, and of course Athena had been making her rounds.

“What’s down there?” Jack snarled, irritation quickly rebounding as he was left with more questions than he ever felt comfortable having.

“Development labs, mostly,” Rhys answered quickly, accurately reading the turn of Jack’s tide. “There’s a large research division here--” he pointed in the general vicinity of Salt Flats, “--that contains encyclopedic knowledge on Pandora’s flora and fauna, and next to it _should_ be a considerable vault of refined Eridium. Down south was the testing division, which, if we can be allowed planetside, should have a considerable amount of armament, including crates of Titan enhancers, Cyclops rifles, and the Harpy prototype.”

Jack let out a low whistle as his agitation fizzled into bubbling glee. He smirked, allowing those bright red beacons of his failings morph into beautiful potential. A fucking _goldmine_ of Atlas weaponry, fine-tuned in a way Jack’s own scientists were still struggling to recreate, having not been in the Eridium game long enough to understand the applications that Atlas had perfected.

He needed to seize it, and quickly. Pandora was crawling with Vault Hunters and annoyingly persistent bandits, and hell if Jack was going to let them get their grimy, heathen fingers all over that kind of armament.

“I can send a team down immediately,” Jack began, his mind already heavy in the throes of processing the newest bounty as he turned back towards his desk and tapped his computer to life. “Give Angel the coordinates of every undiscovered Atlas facility, and get the hell out of my office.”

“Sir, with all due--”

“Shut the hell up, Northcutt. The information is good, and you’ve kept your “advisors” alive long enough to feel the door of my office hit them in the ass on the way out. There’s no way this meeting can possibly go better for you, so why don’t we leave on a high note, huh, cupcake?”

“It’s _Rhys,_ ” the boy responded calmly, but Jack could see the flash of insubordination in his features as he shifted his attention long enough to look up from his screen. “And I’d advise against sending a team. Atlas’ previous upper management left a considerable amount of security in these facilities, and unless you have an expert on Atlas coding on hand, you’re going to have trouble hacking past the defenses before the turrets give your entire team chest cavities.”

Jack paused as Rhys’s words rang heavily in the air, likely more heated than he’d meant them to be. He stared Rhys down, his fingers twitching just slightly next to the holster on his thigh, though Rhys’s sight didn’t drift, intent on being heard rather than bullied out Jack’s office. Instead, the COO stared right back, eyes narrowed in an annoyance so blatant that Angel took several steps forward in an effort to ease the tension steadily building in the room.

“Jack, if I may. They’ve already signed an affidavit declaring that any weaponry found on Pandora legally belongs to Hyperion, and the proper paperwork is being processed. Legal doesn’t believe this venture to be anything but authentic. And considering we’ve had… issues with Atlas security before, bringing along an expert might not be entirely ill-advised.”

As usual, Angel’s seen straight through the meaningless concerns and gone straight for the root of Jack’s distrust. He lifted a few fingers in both acknowledgement, and a kind request for her to stand down. He was still watching the man in front of him, waiting for a break of character, a flicker of intentions that might belie Rhys’s reasoning for this devotion. But Rhys remained steadfast, eyebrow arched as if he _dared_ Jack to question his recommendation.

“And what’s in this for you, princess?” Jack finally asked. “Gonna trek through the slums just to retrieve some shiny tech for ol’ Handsome Jack? You clearly aren’t the brown-nosing type, if your insubordinate attitude is anything to go by, and a promotion is a bit out of the cards, so what’s your catch, kid? What’s down there for you?”

Rhys flexed the fingers on his flesh arm, considering the question, before approaching the solid wood desk before him. “Sir, I love my company. Atlas is everything to me, and I want nothing more than to see her in the glory she deserves, even if that means being a subsidiary of Hyperion. We have the best weapons development team in the galaxy, and our cybernetic department has made incredible advancements.” His ECHOeye flashed, as if to make a point. “But my departments _need_ that data on Pandora. And considering you killed off everyone local to the projects, I’m the only person alive within reasonable distance that has the ability to break into those facilities.”

He paused, and Jack didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked down to fully take in a read on the situation; Jack’s stance, his body language, the energy in the air around them, all of it was directing the kid on what best to say, and Jack loved to see it displayed so proudly, as though Rhys considered it _hardened._

“The board wants cooperation, I want Atlas to thrive, and you stand to make a whole lot of money. There is _no_ downside to this, unless you count having to inform your own weapons development team that they’re about to be outdone.”

The short-haired woman in the back moved uncomfortably, her eyes wide and alarmed at Rhys’s bold statement, and Jack smiled at the unintentional tell. So Atlas wasn’t this arrogant, not really. Rhysie was their little black sheep, a brash and assertive entity in an otherwise stagnant corporation.

Interesting in more ways than one, it would seem.  

“Pandora is no place for a suit and tie, sweetheart,” Jack crooned, eyeing Rhys’s tailored outfit with an unreadable expression. “Lot of bad things happen down there. Lots of people who’d love to carve you into itty bitty bits.”

Rhys straightened back up to his full height, which teetered dangerously close to Jack’s own. His expression was solidified, cavalier as ever, as he answered, “And I’m much more than a pretty face, _sir._ ”

Jack raised his eyebrows at this little black sheep, this smart-ass whose only salvation from Jack’s trap door lay in his unique and aggressive defiance, cleverly wrapped in a salivating package that _screamed_ of middle manager gone off the reservation.

“Oh?” Jack questioned, because Rhys’s words felt too open-ended for a finishing one-liner, and part of him was still as invigorated as ever by their exchange.

Rhys brought his hand up again, palm facing heavenwards as a video feed was projected forward for Jack to observe.

“He’s in a containment cell inside of my ship, docking bay 54. I heard you’ve been looking for him?”

Jack watched with growing incredulity as the man in the cell kicked at his restraints viciously, yelling curses that would fall on deaf ears.

“Roland,” he sneered, fingers tightening. “How did you...”

“It’s a gift,” Rhys concluded, dropping the feed and lowering his arm back to a respectable stance. “In hopes of a cautionary cooperation on Pandora.”

“From Atlas?” Jack asked, skeptical, but part of him already knew the answer, and it was hard to keep his mouth from quirking upwards in amusement.

“From me,” Rhys corrected decisively, after the briefest moments of hesitation. “So, Handsome Jack, do I have your permission to take my team to Pandora?”


	2. bigger than a pay stub

///

_"Planted firm, let the planet burn_

_Understand the terms -- you don't want to open up this can of worms"_

///

 

 

Jack swiveled lightly in his chair as he watched his office doors shut behind the Atlas entourage. He was deep in thought, combing over the exchange in minute detail and compiling everything he learned into subfolders in his head, to be rearranged and recalled upon later, if needed. He glanced at his computer screen, which already held unremarkable dossiers on the four novelties that had just changed the entire course of his day.

The information on them was bareboned at best. Rhys had been hired to Atlas headquarters eleven years previously, at the tender age of sixteen, boasting an unprecedented affinity with robotics and computer analysis. By the time he was nineteen, he’d been promoted from entry-level data mining to Director of Research, as well as playing liaison and advisor for both marketing and the fledgling robotics division. At twenty-two, he had obtained masters in neuropsychology and mechanical engineering, and was the unofficial face of the company, overshadowing founders and executives alike with boyish charm, relatable personality, and a cover-worthy smile. After obtaining a PhD in neuroscience, he taught once a week at the local, Atlas-funded University. The classes were rumored to have a six year waiting list.

Unfortunately, the information slacked in density after that, with no notable fanfare about the five years it took him to go from department director to COO, nor why he was selected to step up after Henderson’s apparent death.

Jack scowled at the missing information, glossing over magazine prints that showcased Rhys demonstrating the applications of a robotics model to a fawning University class, before moving on to the other dossiers that external affairs had hurriedly sent him shortly after Atlas had docked.

Hardwick was a bore. Vaughn had followed Rhys throughout school, earning his own degrees in financing and off-world economics. His position as CFO was newly obtained, though he’d had the credentials long enough to seize the position much sooner. Jack filed that curiosity away and moved on to the sisters, who had a staggering total of one page each.

Jack raised an eyebrow as he scanned. No formal schooling, no notable business connections, and no backgrounds. His external affairs department had done some digging, and managed to find local wanted posters for the both of them that had been scrubbed clean from the ECHOnet. Modest things like petty theft, possession, and hustling, but enough to keep them from landing any lucrative jobs at any self-respecting corporation. They were listed as being Rhys’ personal advisors for four years, which was far too long to be hired solely for their experience to pay off on Pandora.

Jack sighed and sat back in his chair as Angel approached his desk, her straight and pristine figure slowly succumbing to relaxation. She took off her professional appearance like a rather cumbersome jacket, and winced as she rolled her shoulders in relief.

“Anything interesting?’

He chewed his lip, annoyed at the lack of data in front of him. “Quite a bit, I imagine. Can’t figure out what’s useful and what’s not, pumpkin. Got anything else for me?”

Angel groaned softly and cracked her back, pulling a chair over to slump into it. “Well, they turned off the transmitters in the keycards. Didn’t get anything except a shuffle and a clatter, then,” she made a cutthroat motion with her hand, “ _\--crrrk_ , dead. But, that’s the only red flag I’ve picked up on so far.”

“Not necessarily a red flag,” Jack mused, scanning his computer screen without truly taking it in. “Atlas is big on keeping their shit to themselves. They have a delusion that everyone finds their company to be _interesting._ ”

Angel smirked and her eyes grew devious, a stark dichotomy against the innocent freckles that splayed across her face. “I daresay you found _something_ interesting about their company, didn’t you?”

Jack raised his eyes to study her. “You best be talking about guns, honey.”

She didn’t respond, but rolled her eyes childishly, and Jack had a swift pang in his heart for her lost youth. For the moments like this (a petulant, slightly embarrassed pre-teen eyeroll) that he had missed, that should have been an endearing memory, but were instead wrought with pain and stank of fear.

He cleared the thoughts swiftly from his head as she changed the subject with a satisfied smile.

“So what are you thinking? They’ve got me convinced, but I’m a bit smitten.”

Jack pulled a face but didn’t take the bait, opting instead to scroll through the multitude of publications Rhys had taken centerfold in. Earlier editions had been tamer, mere snippets from dissertations and theses that had been folded into the back corner of some tech magazine or another. A small picture accompanied a few of the larger articles, and Jack’s questions only grew as he spotted two very organic arms attached to a younger, lankier Rhys.

“The kid’s smart,” he admitted begrudgingly. “Something of a prodigy, by Atlas standards at least. Still doesn’t explain how he landed COO, or why he has two planetside locals trailing after him. And I don’t buy that bullshit about getting data, either -- I’m sure it’s a nice bonus, but it ain’t the main course.”

Angel turned one of Jack’s screens towards her, studying the dossiers with a lukewarm interest. “Pretty bold of him to walk in here and speak to you like that. If he’s not an idiot, then I imagine he knows all about the ways you deal with disrespect.”

Jack scoffed. “ _Bold._ Try arrogant. He came in here with a fucking deathwish.

“And left with your approval. I think he played you, Dad.”

Jack irritably flipped the screen back towards himself as Angel’s eyes started going misty and dopey, her head relaxed in her hand.

“I don’t get played,” he responded testily. “And stop with the goddamn heart eyes, Jesus, I don’t want to see that shit. Angel, listen--” He leaned forward, grabbing his daughter’s attention easily as she sensed the sincerity in his voice. “Be careful. I won’t tell you not to engage with them, because you never listen to a goddamn thing I say unless I’m paying you to, but exercise caution. _Please._ We don’t know these people, and frankly, unless they start owning up to what they’re really here for, they’re going to outlive their usefulness.”

Something bright and defiant flashed in her eyes, but she kept her mouth shut. Years of misguided attempts at rebellion that Jack had to inevitably save her from had twisted his advice to gospel in her mind.

But Jack knew better than to push the limits of her acceptance. “You don’t approve?”

Normally, she was easy-going about his work, and the casualties that came with it. His ruthlessness was no secret to her. But now and again, she would catch something he didn’t; a practicality for a dead man walking, a profit to be made in sparing and re-assigning a seemingly worthless individual. Just as she had learned to trust Jack’s concern, he’d learned to stop and listen. _Truly_ listen.

At least to her.

But she only grinned, offering no insight outside of, “I think you’ll have a difficult time.”

“Alright, enough,” he said, swiping his screens clear of Rhys’ face. “That’s about all the tolerance I have for the boy-band heartthrob today. How you feeling, honey?”

Her fingers inadvertently ran across her forearm, where her ‘tattoos’ were undoubtedly glowing bright. “Good. They’re holding up. I’ve been having to replace them every twelve hours though, instead of eighteen. Price you pay for quantity decrease, I guess,” she laughed weakly.

Jack studied her, looking for all the things Angel would rather wear on her face than try to coax from her throat. “Well, give Levinson an update and tell him to find a work-around, unless he wants his six figure salary to drop down to five.”

Angel rolled her eyes. “Sure, Dad. What’s your plan now? Want to get lunch?”

“Sure thing pumpkin,” Jack said, swiveling his chair to stand. “I’ll meet up with you, just gotta make a quick stop over at the docks. We have a guest, remember?”

She waved away his comment and made her way towards the door, her mind already fully focused on lunch -- likely one of those bistros that pandered to her new health food kick, much to Jack’s dismay. He stood to follow her, sending out a call as he went. Only a few moments passed before it was picked up.

_“Afternoon, sir.”_

“Hey, Timmers,” Jack responded lightly. “Got a job for you, so start putting together your team.”

 

///

 

Jack’s office door had barely shut behind them before Fiona’s fist collided with Rhys’ arm. Twice. Three times. Rhys winced at the impact but didn’t retaliate, his mind still clinging to the ghosts of their meeting.

“What is _wrong_ with you!” she hissed, trying to keep her abuse as concealed as possible to avoid attracting the attention of armed guards stationed beside the security checkpoint. A final hard blow knocked Rhys’s attention back to the physical plane.

“ _Ow!_ Fiona, knock it-- _seriously?!_ Stop!”

“Are you _trying_ to send us back home in pieces? You can’t talk to him like that, you stupid, gigantic _dope_!” She lectured harshly, impacting every few words with a solid hit to his arm.

“Not here,” Rhys chastised quietly, nudging Fiona’s arm until they were moving forward, Sasha and Vaughn at their sides. Once clear of the security, they piled into the elevator to enjoy a stiff, wound-up silence, and he could feel the impending explosion like the barrel of a gun to his head. His hands started to shake on the way down to their floor, and he couldn’t decide if it was from apprehension, or shock.

He was used to difficult business transactions. But on the flip side, he was also used to getting his way. Thanks to a winning smile and some choice wordplay (coupled with a casual boast of his skillset as a final dressing), he was able to garner support from wherever he needed it.

But this was an entirely different playing field, and he sincerely doubted that actually gaining Handsome Jack’s interest would ensure a long, healthy lifespan for either himself or his company.

The door to their room clicked shut behind them, and Fiona let the dam burst.

“--If _you_ want to die that’s your business, buddy, but don’t you dare drag me along for the ride--”

“Fiona, chill, for like, two seconds--”

“--She’s right, Rhys,” Sasha sighed, “You were a colossal idiot. He had his hand on his gun the _entire_ time, and you kept going at it like he was just another adoring director you could coerce into getting what you want. You realize who this man is, right? He has a tracker on Hyperion’s website for how many days it’s been since someone was airlocked!”

“His PR department must sob themselves to sleep,” Vaughn muttered helplessly.

“Alright, I get it!” Rhys snapped, sitting down heavily onto the featherdown comforter. “Look, I get that you’re not pleased, okay? But give me some credit, at least. After everything. I know what I’m doing.”

Fiona shifted uncomfortably, still looking livid, but biting her tongue. Rhys knew her, and he could feel her fear far more acutely than the anger she tried to cover it with. Her and Rhys had their disagreements, but they trusted each other’s intuition more than their own sometimes, even if they weren’t necessarily pleased about it.

Sasha carefully placed their key cards back into the drawer, next to the miniaturized EMP. “This isn’t home, Rhys. People don’t love you here.”

Rhys rubbed his eyes irritably. “I don’t need them to love me. I need them to get out of my way.”

Fiona snorted. “Quick, someone write that down and slap it on an advert.” She threw her arms out dramatically, as if unveiling a billboard. “Atlas brainchild decrees new business strategy: get out his way!”

“Shut up,” Rhy’s snapped, turning to glare at her with a poorly hidden smile and mirth in his eyes.

“We’re all in on this, right?” Sasha voiced, turning to look at each one of them. “I know we’ve brass tacked this thing into the ground, but now that we’re here… it’s daunting. If Jack finds out we’re lying, he _will_ kill us.”

A stiff silence followed, broken only by Rhys undoing the buttons on his coat with a sigh. “We can make this work, guys. I’m doing this. Besides, the first interaction was bound to be the most difficult, and he basically let me mow him down. He’s become complacent, surrounded by yes-men. Assertiveness was the way to go here, at least initially, and I think we’ve made good progress.”

“He’ll get bored of that though,” Fiona warned.

Rhys winked at her, tossing his pristine jacket over the back of a chair. “Guess I’ll just have to keep myself interesting, huh?”

Vaughn, who had remained uncharacteristically silent during their tirade against Rhys’ behaviors, finally looked up.

“ _Please_ tell me that doesn’t mean more flirting. Because I can’t take it, Rhys. I can’t. You don’t pay me enough to watch you sink that low.”

Sasha snorted, muttering “ _phrasing!”_ under her breath and Rhys summoned the decency to at least look halfway embarrassed.

“That so wasn’t in the plan,” Fiona agreed, shooting Rhys a withering look. “Did they teach you that in those Eden universities, or were you just, uh, ‘caught up in the moment’?”

“You shut your mouth,” Rhys replied, pointing an accusing finger at her. “I’ve seen the marks you and Sasha have taken; at least Jack is attractive.”

“Oh my god,” Vaughn groaned, “Can we please move on from this? My ears have cancer.”

Sasha and Fiona only grinned at each other, a silent debate over who would get to drag Rhys through the mud for his latest endeavor first. But before either of them could speak, Vaughn’s ECHO device chirped.

“It’s the requisitions department,” he conveyed, his eyebrows drawing in as he read the message. “A woman named Yvette. She’s assembling supplies for the stint down on Pandora, and wants a list so she can procure everything we’ll need beforehand.”

“Perfect,” Rhys muttered, reaching out for the complimentary bottle of whisky that had been left for them on the dining table. “Oh shit, Sasha, look. They took you seriously.”

“Of course they did. I’m a serious woman with serious needs,” she replied, moving up next to him to snatch the bottle from his fingers. “Give me that. It’s a special request, meaning I’m special, and you’re not. Go drink the overpriced mineral water in the mini bar, you uppity, high class freak.”

“First sign of addiction: a disregard for the feelings of others, Sash. I love you so much, why do you have to hurt me?”

Rhys turned to grin at her, but she was blatantly ignoring him, cooing to her bottle of amber liquor like it was a newborn child. He rolled his eyes, quickly glancing over at Vaughn, who was busy sorting things with the woman named Yvette, before moving to Fiona, who was eyeing Sasha’s bottle enviously as she meandered over towards the minibar.

Before he could open his mouth to ask who was down for another thrilling episode of Hyperion’s motivational adverts (the default feed on the screens), his ECHOeye internally chirped with an incoming message.

 

 

> **[HYPERION_ANGEL_YW1]** : Good afternoon, Mr. Northcutt. Forgive me for not contacting Mr. Hardwick, but the clearance level required for this operation behooves me to speak to you directly. Your team will be been hand-picked by Handsome Jack, and will be waiting for you at docking bay 2 tomorrow at 1300. I will be there at 1200 to escort you.

Rhys frowned. A team of Hyperions, following in his wake? Not his idea of a great time. He formed his response quickly in his head, watching as the words tracked themselves across the upper corner of his ECHOeye.

 

 

> **[ATLAS_NORTHCUTT_RHYS]** : Thank you, Angel. Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding, but I have my own team already assembled.

Almost as quickly as he sent the message, a new one popped up, this one decidedly _not_ from Angel.

 

 

> **[RESTRICTED ID]** : Sorry, kiddo. You want clearance to dig on my planet, you can follow my rules. They’ve already been notified as to their roles, so if you want to make the casting call, be there, or they leave without you.

Rhys scowled, but schooled his attitude into something a little less transparent, for the sake of keeping up appearances.

 

 

> **[ATLAS_NORTHCUTT_RHYS]** : Of course, I understand. Although I must insist on bringing my team in addition to yours. My personal security is paid far too much to let me go without him to a planet where people routinely wear their kills as “skin pizzas” on their face.

Jack took a bit longer to respond to this, and Rhys couldn’t help the small bubble of glee that squirmed his insides at the thought of leaving Handsome Jack at least partially stunned at his intimate knowledge of Pandora’s fucked up rituals.

 

 

> **[RESTRICTED ID]** : I’ll have to vet him first.

Rhys grinned at having the upperhand once more, despite Fiona’s warnings of getting too cocky. And, as much as he hated being in Hyperion space, not having Atlas’s board of flinching, complacent, rule-sticklers breathing down his back about his etiquette was a huge bonus.  

 

 

> **[ATLAS_NORTHCUTT_RHYS]** : Of course. He’s guarding Roland at the hangar bay, so I assume you’ll be meeting him very soon.
> 
> **[RESTRICTED ID]** : Watch yourself, Rhysie.

Rhys knew better to smile at the high he gained from finding even footing with the galaxies most ruthless CEO. He knew better than to smirk at “Rhysie,” despite the somersault that happened in his gut. And he was _definitely_ smart enough to recognize that he was treading water far too deep for him to feel the ground underneath him.

But hell, he hadn’t gotten to where he was by making tame decisions. He left the thinly veiled threat unanswered and joined Sasha as she uncapped her bottle.

 

///

 

A few of the line maintenance techs stared at Jack as he walked. One of them even dropped his datapad, which was hastily picked back up as the tech focused on it intently, his face reddening as he pretended to be busy. The screen wasn’t even _on_ . Jack steeled himself against the sudden onslaught of _need_ to yell at everyone around him, and continued down his path towards the Atlas shuttle.

It was annoyingly hard to miss -- heavy lines of blue in a sea of yellow, like a some shitty little kid had put his fingerprints all over Jack’s masterpiece, mucking it up. Outside the shuttle waited a man who instantly put Jack on alert, as everything from his stance to his expression screamed of former military. Jack knew the guard must have been standing there since Atlas docked several hours ago, but he still looked poised and calculating, keeping a wary eye on anyone that passed too close to the ship.

Beside him, chatting amidly, was a teenaged girl, her bright orange tufts of hair sticking out wildly over welding goggles. She wore Atlas colors, much like the guard did, but her outfit was a cacophony of personality, boasting striped leggings and a loud smattering of oil stains. Her left arm glimmered at him from afar, another cybernetic like Rhys’s, but where the COO’s had been pristine and exquisite, hers was scrappier, amateurish; like comparing a sold-out symphony to a fledgling garage band.

She didn’t even bother looking up when Jack approached, which further incensed him. He considered messaging Rhys again to complain about the poor manners of his entourage, but snuffed the idea out. Technically, all of these freaks were his underlings, but there was respect to be had in their ‘gift’, and Jack could let some bullshit fly now and then if it got results.

“Handsome Jack.”

He looked up as the guard addressed him. A strongly built man, sandy colored hair, his jaw set in something between a hard-ass disposition and a smirk, like he already knew the ending of this story, and it _definitely_ played out in his favor.

Jack withheld the condescending comments that sat heavy in his throat. “That’d be me. You must be the overpaid bodyguard?”

“Axton,” the man said, holding out his hand in greeting. “Ex Dahl commando.”

Jack shook the hand offered him, but raised his eyebrow in curiosity. “You’re a brave son of a bitch, aren’t you? Mentioning that company to me.”

“It’s _ex_ for a reason,” Axton snorted. “Can’t exactly say they had my loyalties. You here for the prisoner?”

Jack ignored his question and glanced around at the shuttle, looking for something to focus on. “So, Rhysie wants to dig up all that data down on Pandora, and he’s insisting I allow you to come along. Any particular reason you feel like my men aren’t good enough to ensure your team’s safety?”

Jack expected the question to put Axton on edge, get him flustered, but the commando just laughed.

“Hey man, I know what your company is about. It’s not Pandora he needs protection from, is it?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Dunno,” Axton shrugged. “Do you feel threatened?”

“Not remotely,” Jack glowered. Was the entire Atlas team like this? What did Rhys do, put out a call for all misfit, unwelcome personnel to gather for the exciting adventure of pissing Jack off?

“Look,” Jack began, trying to channel that fire that came so easily when people cowered (the fire he was having trouble finding right now). “I get that this is mutually beneficial, and I ain’t saying Roland’s capture isn’t a bangin’ way to get into my good graces, but I need to know you can take orders from my man. Atlas isn’t heading this trek, they’re _assisting,_ and as soon as you fail to remember that, you’ll find yourself without a ride home.”

Axton gave a casual salute, more of an assurance than a declaration of respect, but Jack would take what he could get from this group. He glanced down at the still silent girl, who was calmly soldering a circuit board like an elderly lady might crochet.

“Hey, little girl. You part of the freaks’ escapade tomorrow, or what?”

She finally looked up, staring around in confusion as if she couldn’t figure out who Jack was addressing.

“Oh, me? Nah. I’m not really the guns blazing, pow-pow type,” she responded easily. “Although I tried to get Rhys to take my Deathtrap with him, but he said there was no way in hell you’d authorize it.”

Jack’s interest perked. “What’s a Deathtrap? Is it as badass as it sounds?”

Her eyes brightened. “Obviously! I’m not into false titles, you know? We call it DT in the shop for marketing purposes, but they’re still sorting it all out on the legal side after it went nuts and killed my schoolmate.”

“Gaige,” Axton warned, and she shut her mouth quickly.

“Holy shit,” Jack laughed, before prodding further. “Why are you here, then? Personal cheerleader?”

“Rhys is my guardian,” Gaige explained, all pretense of staying quiet forgotten. “Like I said, legal stuff. And until that gets sorted, I can’t officially be brought in as an Atlas employee, so Rhys has been teaching me in private. Says I’ll be head of engineering one day,” she finished proudly, without a trace of shame.

Jack scoffed. “Little young to be making that kind of headway, aren’t you?”

She looked back down to her soldering as she answered, her attention clearly elsewhere. “Rhys was young, too. Besides, isn’t your PA like, sixteen?”

“Seventeen,” he bit back, forever annoyed with how badly he’s been able to hide Angel’s personal details. He knew he’d be giving up a small notion of her invisibility by giving her the PA position, but it was the only way to keep her nearby at all times without the station figuring out their blood ties, and why she’d been missing for so long.

Besides, Angel asked for the job, and he couldn't say no to her. Not after everything. It was lucky she was damn good at the work. Then again, no one knew him better than her, so the shift had been an easy one.

“You want me to escort the prisoner to… wherever you want him? Or you got a team?” Axton asked, breaking Jack’s attention with that drawl of a voice, like it was a truly boring, monotonous day.

“I’ve got a team coming,” Jack responded, quickly checking his ECHO for an ETA on the security team he’d called. “Besides, you’re probably the last person that bandit scum wants to see, right? After me, of course.”

“Why’s that?” Axton asked, true curiosity breaking through the calm commando mask.

Jack hesitated. “Because you’re the one that captured him. Obviously.”

Axton shook his head, adjusting his grip on the Ogre rifle he held in his hands like it wasn’t one of the most expensive guns on Pandora. “Wasn’t me, man. Rhys took him down.”

“Bullshit,” Jack declared conversationally, trying to keep his voice level as a small wave of shock jolted through his system. “Bean-pole brought down _Roland_?”

Axton narrowed his gaze, and Jack was rendered uncomfortable by the scrutiny of it, as though Axton couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“You guys have no idea who he is, do you?”

Jack was saved from answering as his security team loudly announced their arrival, swapping instructions and riddling him with “It’s covered, sir,” and “We’ll let you know when he’s down in the cells, sir,” which was enough to send Jack backtracking towards the elevator. He needed to be in his element for questioning Roland, and somehow, he had been knocked back a peg or two.

He lifted his ECHO to his mouth and put out an order for all of his investigation, research, and external affairs departments:

“I want to know exactly who Rhys Northcutt is, and I want it fucking yesterday. Two hundred thousand dollar bonus to anyone who can gets me the biggest file of _useful_ information before tomorrow morning. The person that finds the least will be forcibly ejected into Elpis. Get moving, people!”

 

///

  
  


Axton’s words were still hanging heavy in Rhys’ mind by the following morning, offering more questions than answers on Jack’s first encounter of Atlas subordinates.

_“Looked a bit taken aback, if I’m honest. Didn’t like the thought of you holding your own, anyway, the prick. ‘Specially interested in Gaige, so might want to have legal ready for some backlash on that, boss.”_

He’d slept on it, but it wasn’t exactly a goldmine of information, waiting for Rhys to dig in and claim it. And Axton had been far more amused at the interaction than helpful.

His reflection stared back at him as he buttoned his shirt, ECHOeye gleaming with that spark of attention his robotics division had begged him not to incorporate. It was too flashy, they had argued, too ostentatious for a market that demanded flawlessly blended cybernetics. He’d compromised, redirecting funding to allow for a broader field of research into skin grafting and practical silicone replacements. In return, neither his team nor the board were to demand he cover his own augmentations with a replacement skin.

He refused to see the cosmetic mechanics as imperfect. The neurophysiological implications were designed and implemented from his own hands and mind, and he’d be damned if he would advertise the unique cosmetic identity they produced (and his design team that brought it to life), as a shameful blemish that needed to be tucked away underneath the normality of a second skin.

Besides, he was already underestimated. “Flashiness” gave him the particular flair he needed to pull off his tried and true method of yanking the rug out from underneath his competition.

He gave himself a final once over in his room mirror, listening to the sound of Fiona and Sasha arguing about sock ownership outside one of the bathroom doors. A simple but finely stitched steel gray vest took the sharp bite away from his deep blue dress shirt, while his thigh holster nagged at him, an empty weight that had his anxiety teetering off balance. He would play nice with Hyperion, let them confiscate his guns with no outward snark, but he knew that the flash of inviting Atlas blue in a nepotism of yellow would still garner respect in it’s own brazen way. And Rhys had always liked being the quiet fork in the road, the cornerstone that would allow him to drift inattentive drivers off the main road and lead them wherever he wanted them.

“Escort’s here,” Axton called, his casual voice range far surpassing that of a normal humans as it travelled the full distance of the penthouse. The sisters’ squabbling stopped as if commanded, and Rhys smiled. Axton had that effect.

Vaughn was waiting for him in the main room, looking timid and uncomfortable.

“Good luck today, man,” he greeted, an informal way of asking, _Are you sure you want to do this?_

Rhys clapped his back, giving a small squeeze of solidarity that would go unnoticed by anyone else in the room - Vaughn’s preferred method of external comforts.

“Thanks bro. Keep an eye on Gaige for me; she’s still sleeping off her enthusiasm for the coffee maker’s AI that she dismantled last night, but I’ve set up some blueprints I want her to work through. Make sure she’s _studying_ , because if she’s not --”

“--She’ll get curious,” Vaughn finished with a nod. “I got it. And remember Rhys, keep the updates coming through our main connection. It’ll be monitored, and if we’re using it, I doubt they’ll look for the private server. Only for emergencies.”

“Ah, come on, no emergencies,” Rhys assured him. “We’ve got this handled. Any word from the Board?”

“Fuck the board,” Vaughn spat, and Rhys smiled. It wasn’t so long ago that Vaughn had been terrified of going against regulations, too caught up in his eternal quest to outshine everyone without truly making a difference that he hadn’t realized he was creating his own struggle.

So much had changed.

“C’mon, gents,” Axton called, a final warning in his voice. “Let’s get a move on.”

 

///

 

Angel led them down towards the docking station, chatting avidly about Hyperion’s recent success in fine-tuning their moonshot cannon.

“Any casualties in those field tests?” Fiona asked, and Rhys tried not to glare at her. He should have known better than to think he could tame an outlaw’s mouth, even after so much time.

Angel took the comment in stride, as though she were often asked about the turn-over rate of employees due to corporate negligence. Rhys’ supposed it wasn’t out of the ballpark of her daily duties, all things considered.

“Only two. We used loaders initially, to retroactively judge how bad the impact would be on an organic body, but two employees tried to utilize the cannon as a tool to flee to Pandora with millions of dollars worth of stolen tech.”

Fiona raised her eyebrow as they walked. “Is that the official story?”

Gracefully, Angel met Fiona’s doubtful expression with her own cool indifference. “That’s the _only_ story, Ms. Erins.”

Rhys suppressed an unwarranted shiver at the warning tone in her voice. This girl had been spending far too much time in Jack’s employ to be able to mimic the threat-laced linguistics Jack had so callously perfected. Even the body language was a carbon copy -- a bit more artfully mastered, courtesy of the heels and trim clothing, but a copy nonetheless. She walked with a fiery importance, and even if it lacked Jack’s hostility and egotism, it still spoke of pride and belonging. And at such a young age.

“How long have you worked for Handsome Jack personally?”

His question was very thinly veiled, but she seemed to find no particular interest in it as she motioned them down their final hallway. The bustling of the docks began to grow louder, and Rhys cursed inwardly as it proved an excellent distraction from his inquiry.

“Several years now. Please, follow me. Yvette is waiting to distribute gear.”

Yvette turned out to be a stern looking woman with an equally stern attitude. She eyed them up and down without shame as they approached, and Rhys felt utterly evaluated from her scathing stare by the time he held out his hand in greeting.

Introductions were respectfully made. Even Sasha, who bore a cold shoulder for anyone that she hadn’t thoroughly stalked beforehand was polite and retained her facade. The docks were surprisingly empty, a long stretch of chrome hallway with a massive expanse of the starry sea of ink that surrounded them. Pandora drifted lazily below, a solitary red sphere that was ignorant to the strife and wars that took place on her surface.

Dozens of bays stretched in both directions, jutting out like tributaries that fed into the main walkway, serene and peaceful. Most of these walkways were empty, but Hyperion shuttles lingered in the distance, dotting the expanse with yellow. All of them were docked, their outsides split open to reveal wiry, electrical insides in need of maintenance.

And beside them was the largest transport of all, not as big as a drop barge, but sizeable enough to hold a group of people without resorting to bumping elbows. It was pristine, _Hyperion_ shining at them through a polished coat of yellow and white.

“First thing’s first,” Yvette said, interrupting Rhys wandering mind. “I need to issue all of you your standard Hyperion equipment.”

She motioned towards the nearest desk, which had paperwork neatly stacked next to several crates of armament.

“Oh, no, that’s not happening,” Sasha cut in, looking affronted that anyone would even suggest it. “I was told I’d get my Silver back as soon as we were off the station.”

Yvette shot her a supercilious look. “Well, considering you’re still _on_ Helios, you’re not entitled to anything, are you?”

Thankfully, Angel cut in before Sasha’s glare could start throwing daggers.

“Yvette, I might remind you that the Atlas corporation are valued guests, and Handsome Jack has assured them himself that all their needs will be met.” She ignored Sasha and and Fiona’s bewildered looks and Axton’s snort. “Perhaps we can find a work around?”

Yvette drummed her fingers on her desk irritably, as though conveniencing anyone outside of herself was a game she was not intent on playing. Finally, she sighed.

“Alright. I’ve got your personal effects here, but per station protocol, only personal guards are allowed their weapons onboard the station. Everyone else’s can be distributed once you’re planetside.”

Axton grinned at Rhys, his fingers tightening around his rifle like a kid that had been told he didn’t have to share his Halloween candy with his siblings.

“I’ll have Handsome Jack’s team leader sign off for them, if that’s agreeable,” Yvette finished, looking as if the very idea pained her.

“Of course,” Rhys replied, cutting in for Angel so she wouldn’t have to subject herself to peace keeper again. “Thank you.”

Yvette’s attention was gone though, refocused on the team of Hyperions that had started filing through the entryway. Jack himself followed easily beside them, laughing uproariously with one of the Combat Engineers, looking ridiculously like a man leading a large team of very focused bees.

“Speak of the devil,” Yvette mumbled, and Angel sighed irritably at her word choice. Sasha tried to hide her grin, which she failed miserably at, and Yvette’s eyes darted to her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time, but said nothing else.

“Hey, kiddos! Ready for another fabulous day on Pandora?”

The man that approached them was a different man than Rhys had met in Jack’s office. The swagger was perfected, the cool exterior of captivating elitism powering through the mundane _normality_ of the Hyperion guards around him was immaculate. But something was off. The glimmer of malice and stress Jack had focused Rhys with the day previously was missing, replaced only by the snark and power the masses were fed via motivational adverts and public appearances.

There was no depth here. At least, none that would befit Handsome Jack.

Rhys scanned him quickly, dampening his signal so avoid the telltale pupil dilation that occurred when his ECHOeye focused.

 

 

 

> **SCANNING…**
> 
> **SCANNING...**
> 
> **ANALYSIS COMPLETE**
> 
> Name: **[ERROR 41]** No birth record found
> 
> Alias: Handsome Jack
> 
> CEO of Hyperion Corporation
> 
> 36 / Male

 

The initial analysis popped up clearly across his feed before being replaced with a slew of information, including vitals, blood type, facial scans, and approximated details that included current levels of anxiousness, confidence, likeliness of confrontation, and other important physiological details. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and the biological signature that appeared matched Handsome Jack’s exactly, but Rhys still felt doubt churning his insides, begging for consideration.

And he didn’t miss the way Jack’s eyes lingered a moment too long on his mismatched ECHOeye, apprehension sliding upwards a measure, before his vitals cooled and he shot the group a winning, poster-perfect smile.

“Is that a no? Cause I’m perfectly happy to go without you lot.”

Axton took a step forward, a casual sign of wanting to take the lead on directing the outcome of this conversation. Rhys let him. Outside of being an incredibly efficient bodyguard, Axton was a useful tool for dissolving tense moments, and Rhys was currently too busy studying the Jack before him to really focus on formal niceties.

“Mornin’, Handsome Jack,” Axton said, nodding his head respectfully. Axton was freespoken, of course, but he was smart enough to know when to hold his tongue if he wanted to keep getting paid. “There’s a bit of a dispute on how soon my team can have their personal effects back. Are you the person I talk to about that, or is there a delegate team leader?”

For the first time, Jack’s eyes flashed to Axton, and there was a glimmer of _something_ there that almost mirrored surprised, but it was reeled in quickly.

“Right, Axton, I remember you. Considering I’ll be leading the charge here today, I guess I’m the person you need. Come on, let’s talk business,” he offered, waving him over towards his tiny Hyperion army. “And let me introduce you to my men; hopefully they’ll learn a thing or two from you today.”

Alarms were lighting up the back of Rhys’s skull as he watched Jack sling an arm over Axton’s shoulder as they walked. He turned to glance at Fiona, who had her eyes narrowed at the pair as well, though she didn’t seem as close to figuring it out as Rhys was.

But, he _had_ heard rumors...

Fuck it. He’d take the chance.

He used his ECHOeye to quickly type out a reply to the anonymous number Jack had contacted him from yesterday.

 

 

> **[ATLAS_NORTHCUTT_RHYS]** : And just whose company do I have the pleasure of today, Handsome Jack?

He glanced up nervously, half-worried he’d made a fool of himself, but the Jack several yards in front of him had no reaction to an incoming message. Validated, Rhys stood a little straighter, waiting for further instruction from the man before him, whoever he was. A new message blipped in the corner.

 

> **[RESTRICTED ID]** : Well, aren’t you a smart one, cupcake. That ECHOeye is really something. They teach you that in those fancy Eden academies?

 

The corners of Rhys mouth quirked, a silent victory. He quickly formulated a response.

 

> **[ATLAS_NORTHCUTT_RHYS]** : If you think I learned that in a school, _or_ from the ECHOeye, you’re more off your game than I thought.
> 
> **[RESTRICTED ID]** : Watch your mouth, Atlas, or I’ll have that pretty eye plucked right of its socket. All I gotta do is snap my fingers.
> 
> **[ATLAS_NORTHCUTT_RHYS]** : Not very diplomatic. Besides, I’m your COO. I’m here to make your life easier, sir.

 

Fifteen stories up and half a mile away, Jack drummed his fingers on his desk as Rhys’s message came in. The audacity was one thing, but the warm curl of pride from that prissy little response was another, one he was entirely unequipped to deal with.

_Prick._

He rolled his eyes towards Timothy’s video display, a live feed that transmitted to Jack what Tim saw at any given moment. The view was swivelling between the ex-Dahl and one of his lead engineers, encouraging a conversation and unity between them with all the sophisticated air of a tycoon guzzling a group of clueless investors.

He really ought to give that boy a raise.

“Hey, Timmers, got a minute to chat?”

He watched as Tim excused himself several feet away, pressing his earpiece a little further in to muffle the outside chatter.

_“What’s up, boss?”_

“The Atlas fuckboy knows you’re a double. He’s a clever little shit, so keep your eyes on him.”

Timothy’s view flicked over towards Rhys, who was leaning against Yvette’s table as he chatted politely with Angel and Fiona, a smug confidence radiating around him like a verifiable cloud of victory. Tim’s eyes hovered a moment longer than they normally would for Jack’s marks, and he wasn’t surprised to hear Tim’s whispered snark immediately afterwards.

_“Easiest thing you’ve ever asked of me.”_

“Eyes _only,_ ” Jack growled, ever annoyed at the persistent swooning that seemed to accompany everyone in Rhys’s vicinity. “Be ready to take him out if he tries anything stupid. He’s already on my list.”

 _“And, uh, which list would that be, sir?”_ Tim asked quietly, and Jack’s video feed was once again assaulted with the image of Rhys, looking unreasonably comfortable in his silk dress shirt, reflecting the light much like his orange ECHOeye did. The dichotomy of the kid was grinding at him, a caricature of a business professional, mauled by soft cheeks and a seemingly underdeveloped sense of importance, while still swallowing Jack’s threats like he’d long ago conditioned himself to the taste.

“Shut up, Timmers, or you’ll be doing paperwork for a month.”

Tim chuckled. _“You got it, sir.”_

 

///

 

The shuttle down to Pandora hadn’t been nearly as turbulent as Rhys prepared himself for, and he couldn’t deny the professional annoyance of how Hyperion’s upgraded aircrafts rivaled Atlas’s own.

It was petty, sure, and not even Rhys’s department. But that fire that always simmered in his bones, the drive to outshine and outdo, had only been amplified by being in Hyperion space. He wanted to best Handsome Jack, as foolish of an undertaking as it might be, and he hated the small reminders of how large and intimidating this corporation truly was.

Not to mention how out of place Atlas employees looked next to the stoic, streamlined rows of Hyperion personnel. Sasha and Axton were playing a rather vicious game of red hands that was quickly just devolving into an excuse to playfully hit each other, while Fiona stayed curled up in the corner next to Rhys, her attention focused on the 3D modeller Rhys had made her last Christmas. She was sculpting a small wing, eyes narrowed and focused.

“For that little shit, Angel,” Fiona murmured, once she had gotten her fill of Rhys’s staring. “She’s Hyperion, sure, but I kind of like her. Feisty.” She paused for a moment, her face going pensive. “She seems young for the job, doesn’t she? And so focused. Like she hasn’t had a lot of kindness in her life.”

Rhys let the question dissolve without an answer and settled in, biting back the urge to point out Fiona’s concern and tease her for it. Her relationship with Rhys had changed her, had taken some of the disillusion out of her worldview, and empathy had slowly begun to replace her deep mistrust and paranoia. It had been a slow process, one Rhys thought might never yield results, but Fiona had never been one to turn a blind eye to the misfortune of someone she could easily see, however unconsciously, as a younger sister. She hated having it pointed out, declaring it a weakness and resolving to be cruelly indifferent for several days afterwards, as though attitude were simply a balancing act and she only had to even the scales.

They were unprofessional together, Rhys knew that. They could play the part of a meticulously assembled contact team, but their cover was barebones at best, and it wouldn’t take long for anyone to figure out how deeply embedded they were together. How Rhys might not have brought the most qualified people for the job, but rather, the right _companions._

But regardless of consequences, he’d take his ragtag group of unprofessional professionals any day over the disgruntled and insouciant Hyperion entourage.

He looked down the line of blank Hyperion faces, fingers tight on their rifles like their paycheck was fluttering wildly in their grips. He couldn’t command an army. Hell, he could barely command his advisors. And while his demeanor and tact had secured him everything back home, being in Hyperion space couldn’t help but remind him how entirely out of his element he truly was, companionable entourage or not.


	3. I wasn't drafted, I asked for the mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments! It really is very encouraging. I'm sorry the posting schedule is so gapped, but I don't want to post faster than I can write, then leave everyone hanging.

_///_

_They've arrived, so fix the beef, quit actin' like a sheep_

_Either spit your speak or sit there and grit your teeth_

_///_

 

 

Pandoran air was biting in Salt Flats. The atmosphere was vacant, a parallel expanse of sky and land, and the cracked terrain allowed for the chill of the snowy mountains to sweep down across the expanse in stinging guffs. Fiona looked murderous as she stared down the distant snow-peaks, rubbing her arm in a valiant effort to increase blood flow.

The rest of the team piled out, including one Jeffery Blake, a peculiar character who managed a surprising benevolence despite his corporate lackey appearance. As boredom had begun to set in during their flight, Rhys made his curious introductions, for which Mr. Blake had given a rather stiff, almost lugubrious answer.

“Jeffery Blake, head of Mercenary Relations and Tourism. Previously known as Hyperion’s acting Vice President,” he'd sniffed humorlessly.

“You seem a competent man,” Rhys had mused. “Why the demotion?”

Blake had very nearly smiled, but it wavered like a plucked string, uncommitted to any particular direction, and eventually fell flat. “Handsome Jack removed the position entirely. There were...incidents. Internal safety issues. All executive positions have been wiped from the bracket, leaving only department-specific titles. But, I won’t say more… you understand.”  

Now, Rhys watched him exit the shuttle with grim determination, his jaw set with a defiance to power through the job, if only to say he had. It was odd to see a man so clearly faithful to Hyperion without the telltale terror of Jack’s paranoia driving him to perform. It hadn’t occurred to Rhys that there were people here who had dedicated decades to Hyperion, loving her throughout her changes, settling in for the tides and accepting what came.

It had to be a lonely existence, with Jack’s flair overshadowing the work it took to create such a quality company. For the men and women who had devoted their lives to it, only to be lost in Jack’s ever expanding horizons.

Rhys was aware of his own celebrity status back home, but he always entertained the idea that he represented his employees honestly, even viscerally. Technicians and groundbreakers were always on stage with him (though the cameras and publicity would argue that statement), and he _always_ gave credit to his teams rather than Atlas as an undefined, sprawling entity.

Still, watching Blake, he wondered how close he had slipped to making the same mistakes Jack did. If maybe those mistakes were still in his future, patient and self-assured in their eventual presence.

‘Jack’’s hand thumping on his back startled him out of his pondering, and he registered his Aries being held out for him to take. A tension he didn’t realize he was still carrying in his shoulders dissipated as his fingers gripped his revolver again, a mumbled word of thanks sliding carelessly from his lips.

'Jack' grinned, letting his hand linger a little too long on Rhys’s shoulder, and Rhys was vaguely aware of Axton watching the exchange closely a short distance away.

“Hey, you’re welcome. Your commando over there seemed a bit busy sorting through everyone’s personal pieces, and well, it’s not every day you get to hand deliver a beauty like this.”

He motioned towards the Aries that glimmered slightly in Rhys’ fingers, courtesy of the underlying transfusion effect.

“So,” Rhys began, shaking himself out of the lull he had placated himself into and ignoring the bait to enter a discussion on classified weapons development. “What should I call you? And how many of your men know?”

Jack’s smiled dimmed slightly, only to be replaced with a slightly indignant eyebrow raise. “A few do, but they’re smart enough to keep their mouths shut. This isn’t a “common knowledge” type of scenario, if you get my drift.”

“Fine,” Rhys’s replied dismissively, tucking his revolver back into its holster. “But I’d still like to know your name, all things considered.”

A message from Vaughn popped up in the corner of his view, chastising him for his reckless wordplay, but Rhys ignored it. It wasn’t for him specifically, but rather for anyone monitoring the channel, and Vaughn was just playing his part.

The man in front of him faltered for a moment, seemingly chewing it over, and Rhys wondered how much of that was for show, and how much of it was stalling, waiting for direction via an earpiece. His eyes scanned over the double’s face, taking in the nuances, looking for things that seemed too distinctly perfect.

“Timothy,” the man finally replied, his voice so hushed Rhys could barely make it out. “But if you ever say that aloud, I will quite literally kill you.”

But Rhys was too busy studying him to fully register the threat. There was a very slight gleam in Timothy’s eyes, and a few things started sliding into place.

Rhys moved closer, invading Tim’s space to focus on the bright sheen of his irises. “Incredible. I've never seen... Is it a lens, or is it attached directly on your optic nerve?”

Timothy stiffened, and Rhys knew he was on the right track.

“I want to say it’s a surface transmitter,” he continued, trying to combat Timothy’s uncomfortable shifting by moving closer, “but I had no idea they’d been perfected. An optical attachment is a more stable route, but the surgery is imprecise, and I imagine Jack put too much money into you just to lose you to an operating table. So, which is it?”

Timothy swallowed. “Hyperion technology is classified. And I’d appreciate you keeping your goddamn voice down.”

Rhys leaned closer, studying the eyes of the man before him, completely indifferent to the spectacle he was showcasing. He smiled slightly, and stared directly into Tim’s eyes. “He’s watching me right now, isn’t he?”

Timothy jerked back, saved from answering as Sasha barreled into their personal space, pushing Rhys backwards slightly with a grip that bordered on bruising.

“Sorry, sir, he gets a little wacky about tech, forgets about boundaries and, you know, everything. Should have seen what he did to one of our investors -- you remember, Rhys, the lady who got that part installed illegally and it started trying to murder her husband. You tried to get her to stay in the shop instead of the medical wing -- super funny, really inappropriate, let’s just…”

She pulled Rhys away from Timothy fully, linking her arm solidly in his as they ducked gracelessly out of the conversation.

“Are you nuts?” She asked quietly as they retreated far enough away, back towards the crates where Axton was handing an overly eager Fiona her customized Chimera.

“That’s not Jack,” Rhys responded easily, keeping his voice as soft as he could manage. “A manufactured body double, down to the damn DNA. Said his name is Tim. He’s got an implant that’s transmitting everything he sees directly back to Jack.”

“What difference does it make?” She hissed back. “We’re still being watched, we’re just less in the loop about it.”

“Because if Jack isn’t here, then he has much larger business to attend to. And seeing as how we’re currently the biggest problem on this station, I guarantee you that business relates to us.”

Sasha’s face paled a bit, and she stopped in her tracks. “Do you think Vaughn and Gaige are in trouble?”

Rhys shook his head, trying to shift through the possibilities in his head to find something solid and stable. “I doubt it, at least not yet, but he’s probably gathering whatever information on us that he can. Let Fiona know in private, when you have the chance.”

Sasha nodded solemnly, and tightened her grip on Rhys arm.

 

///

 

The Atlas facility was built straight into the side of the mountain, unlike most of Dahl’s prefabricated build-and-dump constructs that littered Pandora like landmarks of immovable dumpsters. This had been built to be protected, hidden from prying eyes through two hundred miles of distance between the mountain range and any hospitable town. Only two watchtowers guarded the main door, like stoic sentries, barely visible from the wasteland.

Rhys knew there would be hidden auto turrets; they'd be waiting like predators, burrowed under the unassuming concrete slabs and smeared with old Altas war-mongering red, patiently biding their time for the next foolish person to stumble a little too close. With his EHCOeye alight, he measured the distance they had before they’d trip the proximity alert, and held up his hands to stop the entourage behind him.

“Here. Just wait. Turrets will activate about ten paces forward.”

He could hear the grumbling of a Hyperion employee, probably displeased at being transferred from leadership to leadership, but the moment Axton stood a little straighter and followed Rhys’ instructions without question, a ripple effect followed. Hyperion quieted, and the murmuring stopped.

Axton really did deserve that raise.

“Just...stand by,” Rhys mumbled, distracted as a discord of data started streaming through his ECHO, and thankfully Tim took up instruction after that.

“You heard him. Stand down, Hyperion. Atlas is going to shut down security, so we’re waiting for his mark. Sovahen, your team is first, and Miller, need you to stay back…”

Rhys tuned out the instruction. Tuned out the biting chill of the air, the quiet shuffle of Fiona’s feet beside him, and the uncomfortable, slightly invigorating knowledge that Handsome Jack was watching his movements, testing his fortitude and gauging his weaknesses. He tuned it all out.

Atlas coding had always been fairly innocuous -- no hidden failsafes, no secrets buried under sixteen pages of abstract looping codes -- but rather, straightforward and universally accepted. Henderson’s Atlas had prided itself on being user-friendly and transparent, neither of which had any honest intentions behind it, but it sat well with consumers.

Internally, however, Atlas was paranoid. They were the king on the mountaintop, and every company had a knife hidden in their cuffs, ready to cut out anything that resembled weakness. Everything internal was a jumbled, convoluted mess, made worse by the lack of communication between departments and the overzealous programmers Rhys had long since retrained.

Restructuring it into _his_ Atlas had been exhausting, but effective, and the tech left behind on Pandora was now the last remaining structure that ran on obsolete, outdated software.

As such, it took him a solid two and a half minutes to decrypt the files he needed, and even longer to trace the lead back to the security override.

“Hurry up, Rhys, it’s freezing,” Sasha lamented quietly, somewhere near his right elbow.

“Should’ve brought a bigger jacket. Idiot,” he scolded back, rooting through the final subfolders to find the program he needed. “Got it,” he announced, systematically shutting down all automated defenses and disabling the manual overrides. He could feel the hum of machinery whirring through his digital connection, a sign that everything had been rendered defunct.

Extracting himself from the system was always a little jolting; sometimes he’d have locked his legs, his eyesight glassy and uncoordinated as it switched between two realities. He knew it was why Fiona and Sasha stayed so near him, guarding his body like he’d had been momentarily displaced in time, and they were ensuring no one would inhabit the remains until he returned.

There was a moment of silence as Rhys shrugged the stiffness from his shoulders.

“That it?” One of the Engineers asked, clearly unimpressed, and Rhys’s fingers twitched at the sheer unprofessionalism. Part of him wondered if Jack was fucking with him, sending a ragtag crew of insubordinates on this mission, partially as punishment for whatever fuck ups these Hyperion goons managed, partially just to prove just how unwelcome Atlas was in Jack’s territory.

He wouldn’t put it past Jack to have his own team on the ground right now, scouring Rhys’s map on their own and laughing their asses off.

“What were you expecting,” he responded, trying to let disdain rise above the viciousness in his voice. “A welcome banner, maybe? Confetti?”

The Engineer grumbled something back, but Tim quite literally smacked him across the back of the head.

“Shut your mouth, Simmons.” He strode forward, joining Rhys’s at the front of the group, scanning the building curiously. “Nice work, Atlas. We good to head in?”

Without waiting for an answer, he patted Rhys’s shoulder with a heavy hand and strode forward recklessly, putting all his faith in the response Rhys’ didn’t even supply.

“Come on,” Rhys muttered to Fiona, feeling the snow crunch under his boots as he moved to follow. “At least it’ll be warmer inside.”

 

///

 

Jack watched Tim’s feed with his arms crossed, as though it were a favorite television show that had taken a turn he wasn’t particularly fond of. A likeable character had died, the plot had too many holes, and the wrong guy got the girl.

He’d started to get cross the moment Rhys flipped on the inner facility lights with a dramatic twirl of his finger. That finger didn’t really _do_ anything _._ Rhys was just an asshole.

He hadn’t gotten a good look at that fancy ECHOeye at work when Rhys was shutting down the defense system either, and irritatingly, it didn’t seem like Jack was going to get any more information. Once Rhys was in, he was _in,_ and everything he had to access after that came easily, coupled with a stupid flourish that Jack could see only as a giant, metaphorical middle finger.

Because Rhys knew Jack was watching. That much was obvious. Tim, on the other hand, seemed inclined to forget.

“For fuck’s sake, eyes _up,_ Tim.”

Tim’s gaze snapped up from where it had been lingering on the Atlas crew, pulled in like magnetic bait -- unavoidable yet entirely willful. Tim couldn’t respond back, not with the strange quiet the vast emptiness brought, crowding them too close together with the low sounds of cautious footsteps, but Jack was equally grateful for it. Tim’s insubordination had always been a problem, but he got great results, so Jack had generally let it slide.

In fact, he had let that personality trait get the better of him, and now he was paying for the lack of practice he had in culling it. Atlas’s contumacious principles and arrogance were a habit he had learned to admire in Tim, and differentiating it was proving difficult. Like watching his dog charmingly knock over his water bowl, the epitome of a cute idiosyncrasy, yet being furious and annoyed when another dog does the same.  

Plus, it was getting hard to convey to Tim to keep his eyes on Rhys, while simultaneously keeping his eyes _off_ Rhys. Worst part was, he couldn’t blame him. The sight of the innocuous COO letting his fingers graze the revolver at his side, like he was fully prepared to put a bullet through the Engineer that kept running his mouth -- it was more than a little arousing.

And it was that _feign_ that was putting Jack on edge. The outwardly charming executive that hid knives in his pockets while distracting you with a sweet smile and lithe body. But he wouldn’t be blindsided. Jack refused to underestimate anyone ever again, despite how little he respected them, and subjected himself to watching the party advance through the doors with _more_ than a little malice.

The facility wasn’t meant to receive public visitations, that much was clear. The lobby was a wasted potential, gleaming corners that were too sharp with the absence of decor, rendering the place as welcoming as if it had been wallpapered with blades.

“Weapons cache should be down this hallway,” Rhys gestured, the sound of his voice only slightly tinny as it ran through Jack’s speakers. “Past the R&D labs, in one of the stockpile rooms. It’ll be labelled clearly. I’ve unlocked all the doors, so _please_ don’t try to use the scanner. The system is shaky, and it could trigger a lockdown override.”

When no one answered, Rhys turned to glare at the Hyperion team. Jack could just catch the flash of his eye, half turned from Tim as he was.

“It’s not a fucking suggestion, guys. Don’t use the scanner, alright?”

“You got it,” Tim replied immediately, seemingly shaken from whatever trance he’d fallen into. His team mumbled their understanding, looking towards Tim for some kind of guidance.

“Send the boys to collect the weapons,” Jack instructed to Tim, putting his feet up on the desk. “You keep an eye on Spanky and Friends over there.”

“Sovahen, lead them to R&D. Radio in when you’ve found the goods, and start hauling them back to the transport. And,” he added, as the yellow mob started to assemble into something resembling four man teams to clear the rooms, “Listen to our expert on Atlas here and don’t fucking touch anything if you don’t know what it is. If you get locked down, I hope your wills are updated, because I’m not going back for you if you’re too stupid to listen.”

There was the venom Jack had been looking for. Tim still had to be prodded to deliver the full Jack experience, but it was a hard thing to learn, and it relied on Tim himself rather than any classroom instruction. Natural talent could only be replicated so much, and Jack knew he’d gotten lucky. 

“And,” Tim continued, turning towards Rhys. “I expect you’ll be heading somewhere else to locate your data? Hope you don’t mind the company.”

Jack knew the grin Tim would be laying on them: a smug, condescending powerplay. The two girls wore matching expressions of apprehension laced with disgust, whereas Axton looked mildly amused by the display.

“Of course not, Jack,” Rhys replied lowly, turning to look directly into Tim’s eyes, and Jack drummed his fingers on the table irritably at the callout. Fucking _prick._

They separated from Hyperion with little fanfare, and the scuffling died quickly as they began their trek down the main hallway, a distant flight of stairs that led down into shadow their only beacon forward.

Rhys was center in Tim’s vision, as straight-backed and confident as Jack imagined he might be back home. He was a much better COO than Henderson, that much was obvious. There was a confidence and regard in his demeanor that didn’t need to be _bought_ as much as it was easily earned, and Jack almost wanted to respect it. He wanted to consider how thrilled he might be to have a second in command whose head was filled with more than fluff. It wouldn’t have been a bad arrangement, if things had lined up differently.

But things _were_ different.

“Fish around,” he commanded Tim.

“So, Axton,” Tim started immediately. “For someone so against being Dahl’s bitch, you sure were eager to jump back into security work.”

Despite his faults, Tim was clever, and knew where to look. Both him and Jack caught the small tell of Axton’s fingers flexing on his rifle. A sore point.

Surprisingly, it was Rhys who answered.

“Axton isn’t anyone’s bitch,” he replied smoothly, approaching the steps without a sidelong glance at any of the other doors. “He isn’t under contract, and he’s free to leave as soon as the job fails to satisfy him.” He gave a momentary pause before adding, “He also doesn’t respond to threats, which is half the reason I imagine he’s still here. A bit different from Hyperion’s approach, but I’m satisfied with our low turnover rate.”

Jack scowled, his mood only worsening as Tim looked over to find a gratified smirk across Axton’s usually stoic face.

“Just stab him,” Jack growled. “Pull out your knife and slit his stupid little throat. That commando will kill you, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. _Fuck_ this little cocksucker! _”_

Tim hung his head slightly, the only sign of amusement he could give in present company.

“You’re right, we operate differently,” Tim replied, once he had gathered himself. “Atlas should be very proud to have a humble director like yourself. A man who’s not afraid to slum it with the Pandoran locals. To _hire_ them, even. I’m sure your investors were _very_ thrilled with that decision.”

Jack could have kissed Tim. He nearly told him so, but didn’t want to miss the response of that dangerous accusation.

Rhys’s posture hadn’t changed, but the redhead had stiffened up, anxiety billowing off of her in waves. The brunette, Sasha, turned her head a minuscule amount, a silent bidding for Fiona to calm down, but it was so painfully obvious she may have well announced aloud it to the room.

“My investors are quite confident in my ability to find the best and brightest for any particular undertaking. Which is why I’m here personally, rather than sending a team of coders. And, why I imagine Jack sent you, rather than coming down here himself.”

Jack scowled further and muttered, “How has this little shit not been assassinated yet? Timmers, I would _really_ like for you to let him bleed out over those stupid skag-skin boots, please. For me?”

Tim very lightly moved his head back and forth, and Jack knew he was trying to withhold a grin.

“Hell, Atlas,” Tim responded, cavalier as ever. “That’s very nearly a compliment. To me, at least. Can’t say Handsome Jack would be pleased with the blasphemy.”

“My apologies, of course,” Rhys waved him off, tone taking on that business etiquette that managed to sound both pompous and respectful simultaneously. “Here, the server should be located in this far room.”

They followed Rhys silently as he opened the security door with a flick of his expression, and Jack felt an annoying sense of appreciation for the flawless blend of organic and mechanical counterparts. Rhys was good at what he did. It was a _terrible_ admission.

Tim scanned the chrome office as Rhys approached a half wall of streamlined black servers that were adorned with blinking, ominous lights.

“So, why couldn’t you hack into this the same way you did the facility?”

Rhys didn’t shoot a backwards glance at Tim’s question, and instead kneeled down next to the server.

“Our server software is minimalistic at installations like these. You have to be hardwired in to request access and initiate a transfer, and it’s proved to be a much more resilient security tactic than encrypting the files in addition to the tech attached to them. People generally don’t see what’s right in front of them unless a scanner tells them to.”

Tim said nothing, and Jack knew they were both feeling the same surprise at Rhys’s candid explanation of Atlas security. The two girls were standing near Rhys, close enough to act as a buffer between him and the world, but far enough away to appear casually disinterested.

Jack recognized an orchestrated display. He could easily deduce whether someone was being paid to care, or whether they were personally invested, and it irked him to realize that Atlas employees fell within the latter category. The Erins women weren’t protecting Rhys out of a paid responsibility, or even company dedication. They were doing it unconsciously, a learned behavioral response to attachment that they might not even realize they were broadcasting to the world.

Atlas _cared_ about their de facto leader. They admired him, and held themselves accountable for his welfare. The realization didn’t sit well with Jack, and for a fleeting moment, he felt the unwelcome sensation of jealousy.

Rhys pulled a cord from his pocket; a thin, unimpressive little thing that had two silver connectors on both ends. Rhys hesitated, glancing over at Tim skeptically.

“This will take a minute,” he explained, and as if on cue, Axton moved forward to stand beside him until Rhys was effectively caged by his entourage, albeit without making a spectacle out of the display.

Jack quickly understood why, as the kid’s expression went slack the moment he plugged himself into the server. He remained in a crouched position, but at the first sign of unbalance, Fiona’s hand was on his shoulder to steady him, keeping her own stance aloof to avoid drawing attention to her much needed support.

“He’s vulnerable when he’s hardwired,” Jack muttered, scratching his mask idly. “Good to know.”

Tim only shifted, showing no inclination to agree or disagree. But he had always been softer than Jack, so no surprises there.

It only took a minute before Rhys was blinking himself back to reality and disconnecting, but it still would’ve been a significant stretch of time for a person who had no protection. It seemed too  alarmingly helpless a position for a man who, up until this point, had shown Jack nothing but the world wound around his fingertips.

“Got what you needed?” Tim asked, smartly making no comment on Rhys’s silent admission of momentary helplessness.

“Sure do. We’re ready to head back when your team is done loading up the cache.”

Jack sank back in his chair and told Tim he was tuning out.

He had work to do.

 

///

 

Tim’s envoy had already docked and been relieved by the time Jack got his first update from Charlie, his lead tech planetside. Or maybe it was Connor. It didn’t really matter, since the idiot answered to “Asswipe” regardless.

_“We’re still in the beginning stages of combing through the archives and system, sir. But I checked out the isolated server first, as you requested. I’m afraid it’s been wiped.”_

“What do you mean, _wiped?_ ” Jack growled. “Atlas extracted the data in half a minute. There’s no way he had the time to clear that entire server while still re-compiling that transfer into his goddamn _head.”_

There was a shaken silence, the kind that usually followed Jack’s bouts of restless anger.

_“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know how he did it without ghosting the entire hard drive, but it’s been cleaned out. There’s nothing.”_

Jack ran a hand through his hair, scratching the back of his skull to avoid kicking the chair in front of him. “Fuck. _Fuck!_ Fine, just find out whatever else you can about the facility. _Don’t_ initiate any transfers. If Atlas figures out what you’re doing because one of your team was too fucking stupid to avoid triggering a lockdown, I will shut that exterior door and let you all starve to death. Understood?”

 _“Yes sir,”_ Asswipe answered meekly, and Jack cut communications. He threw himself into the chair he had narrowly avoided kicking and stared resolutely at the _Dr. Gabriel_ _Levinson_ nameplate that glimmered at him from a very expensive desk in a _very_ expensive office.

At least some of his employees deserved the salary he gave them.

“Bad day, then?”

Jack glared at Levinson himself, an attractive, dark-skinned man who had only recently hit his mid-thirties. His eyes twinkled with mischief, a trait Angel had immediately latched onto, and it had been years since Jack lost count of the times he found the two of them together, giggling and plotting childish pranks on Levinson’s team of eggheads.

His smile only grew at Jack’s sullen silence. “That Altas boy, he’s a real gem over in the Edens, you know. He’s essentially royalty. I rather imagined he’d be all brains and no bite, but I’m guessing that’s not the case?”

“What he _was_ over there doesn’t matter, because he’ll be dead _here_ before the week’s out,” Jack snapped back. “He’s gonna clear out those old Atlas facilities for me, bring me that sweet data coupled with a goldmine of guns, and then we’ll enjoy the rest of our time together as he digs his own grave, sobbing and gross and pathetic.”

Gabe chuckled, scratching idly at the five o’clock shadow on his face. “His own bespoke hole in the ground? Very _old world_ , Jack. It’ll match his suits.”

He stared pointedly at Jack’s noxious yellow sweater, which Jack ignored.

“You know anything about Northcutt I don’t? I just came from a meeting with the idiots supposed to be gathering me some background on the guy, and all I got was press conference articles written by slobbering fans and  tabloid garbage about which cologne he uses. They wouldn’t understand the term _useful information_ if I jettisoned into their department with acid confetti.”

“Vivid. And actually, you’re in luck. A woman that I went to university with -- an Annie, if you must have a name -- works in Atlas’s R&D department. Spent most of her career there.”

Jack leaned forward, hope skirting through his chest like a timid animal, afraid to drink. “An _Annie_ that you’ve wisely stayed in contact with?”

Gabe shrugged, but it was a heavy movement, weighing more than the gesture would allow. “In a way. I haven’t spoken to her in a year or so, but we used to communicate regularly. Before her work load picked up and she generally forgot her social life, she sent me an interesting video.”

He pulled a ECHO tablet towards him, tapping the screen a few times until his face lit up blue from the glow. He held it out for Jack.

“Here. Dated about a year and a half ago.”

Jack stared down at a blonde whose teeth were just a little too big for her face. She was a generic-looking woman, one who cared for her job more than her personal presentation, if her rumpled lab coat and heavily bagged, makeup-less eyes were anything to judge by.

 _“Hey Gabe,”_ she began, and her voice was light. Airy and calm, as if she wasn’t under any particular stress, despite her workload. _“I know we just chatted, but there’s been a situation, and I find myself needing the opinion of a colleague who dabbles a little more in corporate backstabbing than I do.”_

Jack glanced up at Gabe, who only smiled and offered no comment.

 _“Gary Henderson is dead.”_ She paused for effect, mulling over her own thoughts and clearly recording the video unscripted. _“Everyone’s got differing opinions on what happened. People are saying some of the stockholders arranged it, others think it was natural -- guy didn’t take care of himself, you know. My team and I, though…”_ Her voice lowered, and she shot a wary eye at her surroundings. _“Remember the man who took over for Research, and Robotics? The neuroscientist who’s trying to gain traction for a new cybernetics division? We think he had something to do with it.”_

Jack’s eyebrow quirked upwards, but he said nothing. Gabe twirled his chair lightly, his feet on his desk, listening to Annie’s voice with the tranquility of a man who had long found the hidden message in casual words.

_“He’s been making waves here, if you recall. Undermining the board, implementing new software and approving side-projects across all divisions. Our tech is making incredible advancements, but we’re losing the market for home goods and resource management. That’s our biggest seller, you know. Investors are thrilled for the eventual money that could come from Northcutt’s projects, but Henderson was flipping out over the immediate loss of profit, and so is the board. Just last week he was trying to round up supporters to get Rhys put on indefinite suspension until internal investigations could review his conduct. He was a mess. Clothes were unwashed, looked like he hadn’t slept in days. I think he knew something.”_

Gabe’s eyes flicked up to meet Jack’s, a silent conversation, but Jack kept most of his attention on Annie’s whispered suspicions.

 _“Markus says Rhys is likely to take the COO position. Rightfully, it should go via seniority, but the public would have a fit. Hell, half the workforce would protest. They love Rhys. We all do.”_ She smiled guiltily here, looking far too much like a preteen girl with a diary in one hand and the lock in the other. _“This is between you and me, Gabe, but I have to be honest. If Rhys left to start his own company, I would follow him. He’s a savant, undoubtedly, but our quality of life has dramatically improved since he’s been given power. Our ideas_ **_mean_ ** _something to him, and he trusts us to bring them to life without micromanaging, and only suggests changes, corrects our mistakes, and allows us to move on._

 _“Quite a few people are saying he murdered Henderson. They say they saw the body, a hole straight through the skull, chest littered in bullets. Maybe he did. I’m almost frightened to say that I don’t give a flying shit, Gabe, I really don’t. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but maybe Atlas needed to be culled before she could grow. I know it’s common in Hyperion, even_ **_expected_ ** _maybe, but it’s out of my league. Please let me know if I’m doing the right thing here, by pushing this atrocity under the rug for the sake of the company. I value your advice. Write me soon. Please.”_

The video ended abruptly, as though Annie was desperate to cut her confession short. Jack leaned back and stared expectantly at Gabe.

“So? What was your advice to homely little Annie? Did you encourage her to follow in your footsteps and devote herself to a murdering corporate mogul?”

Gabe was used to Jack’s snide comments and didn’t take the bait. “So... you think he did it, I gather?”

Jack snorted. “Any idiot can kill a man, personally or otherwise. Whether he did it or not doesn’t mean he’s earned my respect.” He paused, his eyes fixed on a blemish on Gabe’s desk as he tried to fit too few pieces into too many puzzles. “Do you think the little twerp is dangerous?”

The question held the twinge of uncertainty, something Jack would never let any of his employees see, but Gabe was different. Gabe had seen Jack on his knees, sobbing as he held four year old Angel’s limp form in his arms. Saw him with his face half burnt off, shooting holes through everyone who even dared see the streaks of rage and agony on what remained of his expression as he tore his way back to Gabe’s lab so many years ago.

“Everyone’s dangerous,” Gabe mused, as though they were discussing another advancement, another curious experiment gone awry. “Either from intelligence or ineptitude, but both should be respected. I’m wagering that you put Northcutt here in the latter, and now that you’re learning more about him, you’re having difficulties accepting him as a rival.”

“He’s not a rival,” Jack sneered. “He works for _me._ I _own_ Atlas.” He paused. Another small twist of the fancy office chair. “But I was used to sniveling Henderson, not this bratty shit who strolls in here acting like he deserves my time.”

“But you _gave_ him your time. And he’s not a child, he’s nearly twenty-eight,” Gabe argued gently. “Respecting another person’s value to your company isn’t a crime, Jack. You respect me.”

“That’s different. You keep my Angel alive.”

“The technology I implemented is easily replicated now that you have the prototypes. Besides, the idea was yours, you only needed me to come up with a usable way to process it. And I daresay that if my job hadn’t tacked on the additional titles of therapist and caretaker, you’d have killed me long ago for knowing too much.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “I thought we were past this--”

“I’m just saying,” Gabe interrupted, putting his hands up in bemused surrender. “You haven’t killed the kid for the disrespect he showed you. You haven’t killed him for keeping secrets, which you _know_ he’s doing. That leads me to believe that you begrudgingly respect him, possibly feel cowed by him; which is, of course, a death sentence in it’s own right. I give him a week, tops, before you blast holes in his entire entourage just because he intimidates you.”

A stiff silence followed. The chair squeaked on the next twirl.

“I oughta blast holes in _you_ for that. It was the verbal equivalent of throwing up all over my shoes. Hated it.”

“Fine, fine,” Gabe waved him off. “But let’s talk about Angel first, before you make me update my list of recommended replacements. She mentioned you were unhappy with the new adjustments?”

Jack was hardpressed to argue the previous enlightenment, but it would involve disclosing his uncomfortable feelings on the matter, which he had no desire to do. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face anymore harsh truths today. He begrudgingly accepted the topic change with all the same delicacy a sledgehammer would offer a mirror.

“She has to change them out every twelve hours now. Fuck that. Too many things could go wrong in half a fucking day. Fix it, or I’m docking your pay.”

Gabe had the decency to look reprimanded. “She requested smaller adhesives. I think she would prefer to wear clothing that doesn’t have her in a perpetual jumpsuit. She hates sleeves, you know.”

Jack threw his head back to stare at the ceiling with an annoyed sigh. He knew where this was going.

“Her safety is more important than fucking _fashion--_ ”

“--She’s a _teenager,_ Jack. She’s got some other shit going on, sure, but she’s still prone to the same human fallacies we are; which, in this case, happen to be hormones.”

Jack rubbed his temple. He ached to take off the mask and subdue the constant itching that would start up around late afternoon and follow him into his evening working hours, like an incredibly incessant house cat that would start knocking shit off of the shelves until it was fed.

“Can the adhesives be further minisculed without sacrificing their longevity?”

Gabe shrugged. “Sure. But it’ll take time. I’m not comfortable putting anything on her until it’s been fully tested, of course.”

“Fine. A compromise then. She can keep the twelve hour ones as long as she always has a spare pack on her person at all times. At least until you do your fucking job and make her life _easier_ for once.”

“I am. She can wear short sleeves now, can’t she?”

“Seriously. Update your list of replacements. I only want the best and brightest to take your spot once I feed you to whatever R&D currently has on deck. Heard it has like, eight rows of teeth and farts out the bubonic plague or something.”

But Gabe was already pulling up his screen, an insulting amount of math scrawled all over it. “Yes, yes, I enjoy our chats as well. Bye, Jack.”

 

///

 

Jack was a fifth of the way deep into his bottle and even deeper in thought. Four screens surrounded him, encasing his body in a glowing blue cocoon that he knew Angel would disapprove of if she found out. She was always blabbering on about vision detriment and blue light affecting his sleep, blah blah blah. It was the exact reason he was doing this in the relative sanctity of his office rather than their penthouse.

A replay of Tim’s feed from that morning was up on the furthest left screen, muted. Jack had been scanning it for something he missed, before deciding it was _tediously_ boring and pulling up some articles about Northcutt on the screen next to it. Those articles had led him to several conference videos, which he had transferred to a new screen, a background noise as he continued to tear through the digital media. But of course, those conference videos had intrigued him, and he found himself on Atlas’s third-party merchandising site, researching the final products that past-Rhys had been so passionate about unveiling.

His third screen currently had Rhys pacing back and forth across the auditorium of some Eden-2 university, his podium all but ignored. His suit was crisp and expensive, gray with pops of eccentric Atlas colors, and his cybernetic arm gleamed proudly around a microphone. There was no ECHOeye yet, and Rhys’s entirely organic face was sheen-free and as pristine as the rest of him, grinning down at the throng of enthralled college students. He was toy prize on the shelf that no one had enough tickets to afford.

_“...And as always, Atlas strives to give back to the loyal customers who so devoutly support our projects as we enter into a new phase of our company. While you’ll still see your favorite housewares and programs on the market for several years to come, we’d like to feed your excitement for the future. That's why, starting this week, all of your labs will be receiving state of the art Atlas tech, including fabrication units for the machine shops, monitoring systems for biomedical engineering -- yes, I see you back there, hello! -- and the new 3D tangible displays for every single workshop.”_

The room erupted into cheers at this revelation, and Jack rolled his eyes, tipping back another slip of bourbon.

_“Now, whenever I do this, I get accused of being a pompous, show-offy asshole--”_

The crowded laughed uproariously, because it was apparently _hysterical_ when a professional cursed into a microphone.

“Ooo, so relatable!” Jack mocked quietly, pulling a face.

 _“--But really, it’s entirely selfish. No, seriously! There are bright minds here, and I want to see them at Atlas when you graduate. I want you to use these upgrades to explore your dreams, rather than following your books. Give me a thesis that you’re_ **_passionate_ ** _about, instead of the cookie-cutter drivel you think will get you in. Use these machines to achieve your greatness, find a team that shares your vision, and make your projects come to life. Let’s make the Edens the technological marvel they deserve to be, with_ **_your_ ** _minds at the helm. I’m waiting to see what you can offer._ **_Atlas_ ** _is waiting for you. The_ **_universe_ ** _is waiting for you.”_

Jack studied the date of the university conference. Five years ago. The little shit hadn’t even been running the company yet, and he was already headlining the show.

One of his screens blipped at him with an urgent message. He raised an eyebrow before clicking the link open, sure that he had cut himself off from all but the most important transmissions for the night.

It was from Angel, the one person who had the clearance to override his digital detachment.

> Dad. I was combing through some of the stuff External Affairs sent up, trying to figure out what was useful, and you’ll want to see this one. It was originally posted to Sasha Erins’ Chatter -- you know, that silly social media app that lets you upload little clips of people doing dumb stuff. It was taken down a few hours later, but someone managed to save it before that. It’s from about two years ago.

There was a media file attached, and Jack set his bottle down a little too hard in his urgency to open it.

Sure enough, it opened to a shaky camera peering down a darkened hallway. Music was drumming from somewhere in the flashy, expensive residence; not pounding and shaking the walls like a juvenile college party, but loud enough to advertise some social event or another.

 _“Rhysie…”_ the voice behind the camera whispered teasingly, and Jack immediately recognized it as Sasha, the dark-haired advisor. She was edging slowly towards one of the doors. _“Rhys, come out and have a drink with us before you die of Old Man Syndrome.”_

A bedroom door opened, and a disheveled Rhys appeared, slightly silhouetted against the fading light from his floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. Jack felt his fingers tighten just a fraction at the sight of the usually immaculate COO dressed in nothing but plaid pajama pants, his left torso a swirl of blue tattoos that winded across delightfully smooth skin. His body was surprisingly firm, and Jack didn’t blame him for not wearing a shirt. The kid was built to be shown off.

Rhys beamed at the camera, and Jack scowled as his gut betrayed him and bottomed out.

_“Rhys! You know it’s only eight thirty, right? How is… are you wearing two different socks?”_

The camera panned down quickly to focus on Rhys’ socks, one of which boasted yellow and blue stripes, and the other, a smattering of pink stars on a grey background.

 _“So what?”_ Rhys asked, still grinning at Sasha. _“Two different socks aren’t going to take away my PhD, wastelander.”_ But Sasha only snorted, moving the camera up and down Rhys’s figure to allow potential viewers time to mock his ensemble. Rhys tried to keep composure, but failed almost immediately. _“Alright, give...Damnit, woman, give me the fucking camera--”_

He lunged for it, leaving his wide open bedroom exposed behind him, and a short scuffle ensued. The camera jostled, focusing first on the wall between doors, then the scattered mess of paperwork and old fashioned cork board that took up the only portion of Rhys’s bedroom that could be seen, before landing back on Rhys’ face. He was still grinning, though he apparently lost.

_“Fine. Turn it off, and I’ll order you that stupidly expensive cheesecake you like from Portio’s.”_

All Jack could hear was Sasha’s soft gasp, and a final _“Oh, you’ve got a fucking dea--”_ before the file ended.

Jack chewed his lip, annoyed for more reasons that one. He typed out a quick response to Angel. 

> Not sure what I’m seeing here, honey. Unless you sent your porn links to your dad on accident.

Angel’s response was quick, and completely ignored the opportunity to tease Jack on his slightly inebriated admission, which was unusual.

> Not Rhys, his bedroom. Here, I’ve already taken screengrabs and enhanced them.

A file followed, and Jack opened it hesitantly, his sobriety trying to worm itself past the fifth of bourbon he’d downed so he could focus. There was Rhys’s bedroom, though now it was zoomed in and focused, illuminated in the soft lighting. Jack hadn’t been interested in anything back there, too caught up in the scene at the forefront and the spectacle of watching a mismatched weirdo lunge for a camera when, only minutes ago, Jack had been watching him enthrall a group of over two thousand university students.

The papers pinned to the board had Pandoran lore scribbled all over them. There was a portrait of Patricia Tannis, and another of a man named Typhon DeLeon, both of which had red notes dotted across the white border. A thick map had been posted up, with dozens of others rolled up careful and positioned on the floor near the desk. The mountainous region on the right hand side of the map (along with several blurry, purple-tinged snapshots) looked unsettlingly like The Descent towards the original Vault.

Jack narrowed his eyes, lips wordlessly trying to read the scribbles that even Angel hadn’t been able to enhance into coherency. Atlas were the original Vault Hunters, the ones who had learned how to refine Eridium and made the first discoveries of alien technology and legendary artifacts. Why would Rhys still have interest in a world his company had long since declared a lost cause? Atlas had a complete monopoly on planet reality across eight systems, so why here?

And if this video was from two years ago, how long had Rhys been planning this trek? And for what?

He clicked on the second screenshot Angel sent him, which was a blown up version of a small note tacked up in the far left corner of the cork board, almost unnoticeable compared to the dossiers and topography maps.

This one was much easier to read, and all the lines had been crossed out, save the final entry.

  * ~~Isolus - Vault of Isla / -44.36268 -119.342331 / weaponry, cryo cells~~
  * ~~Epitah - Vault of ??? / -32.77821 123.44350 / written history, biological conversion tech~~
  * ~~Demophon - Vault of Phyllis / -45.00129 -54.44012 / seed vault, flora able to survive harsh environments~~



Jack felt his pulse throbbing in his ears as he read the final location, which had been circled bright red in a conclusive, decisive manner.

  * Pandora - Vault of Harmonia / location unknown / “pinnacle of Eridian technology”



 

///

 

“You want a grilled cheese?”

Rhys glanced up at Sasha from where he had been pouring over an encrypted datapad. He’d transferred everything from the Salt Flats facility into it after they’d returned, and needed to immediately comb through it to determine their next destination.

“You know we get free room service right? They probably have, like, fourteen different cheeses on the menu.”

“I heard they have actual farms on the lower levels,” Vaughn cut in, his own laptop open in front of him as he nestled into the couch. “Cuts down the import cost, I bet. Still though, a farm, in space? Wild. They got the cows from the Edens like, six years ago, sure, but I heard they have actual _goats_ here _._ When’s the last time you saw a goat?”

Sasha glared at them both, a spatula held threateningly in her hand. “I’m trying to be nice here. You guys have been shoving down that “ _Hyperion grown_ space-farm” crap for two days and I can _hear_ you becoming dumber.”

“We’ve always been this dumb,” Vaughn argued. “It’s your own fault you started to care about it.”

Fiona chose that moment to stroll into the shared living area, looking as pristine and professional as always.

“Gaige wanted to go down to the market, Rhys, so I told her to take Axton and be back in two hours. Don’t leave until they’re back.”

“That’s fine,” Rhys mumbled, his attention slowly turning back towards the data. “Market’s safe enough if she has him with her.”

“She took your company card, too.”

“That’s… less fine. I’ve suddenly decided the market is exceedingly dangerous, and they need to be called back immediately.”

Fiona scoffed and ignored him. Sasha finished buttering bread, eyeing Rhys condescendingly.

“The market is _fine,_ you ass. I was down there earlier today, buying all this shit. The lady there gave it all to me for free, too. She said I’d bring in a lot of business by being there, since executives never bother with her shop when they can just order room service from the bistro.”

She glared pointedly at Rhys, as though he should feel guilty for indulging in his societal right. Rhys ignored the chastisement.

“Jokes on her if she thought you passed for an _executive._ ”

Vaughn choked on his laugh and Sasha whipped her head around fast enough to send her dreads smacking against her shoulder.

“ _Hey_! You should know that advisors are the cornerstone of any professional’s rise or fall! I’m a valued member of this team!”

Rhys looked at her softly, a shit-eating smirk forming on his lips. “Well then I’d _advise_ you to use pepper jack on my sandwich, Ms. Erins. As a valued member of this team, you know I don’t approve of cheddar.”

“I know how you like your fucking grilled cheese,” Sasha snapped, but she was grinning, and turned back towards the stove to hide her smile. "Gonna poison it too. See how that tastes,  _sir._ "

“So what’s the haul from yesterday look like? Anything promising?” Fiona asked, rolling up bits of shredded napkin and flicking them in Rhys’ general direction.

“About what I imagined, unfortunately. We’ve got the location, but, well...” Rhys paused, transferring one of the compressed maps onto his internal server, then projecting it through his cybernetic hand for the room to see. “The shitty thing about Pandora is the same shitty thing we had to deal with on Promethea: tectonic shifting after a Vault emergence. Rivers are diverted, new mountain ranges spring up almost overnight, blah blah blah… Just a whole bunch of shit that renders all previous topography data useless. Not to mention most of this planet is tribal mentality, meaning every fucking group of bandits has a different name for landmarks. Like this place here--”

Fiona flicked a ball of paper through Rhys’ dimensional display.

“--Great. Thanks Fiona. This place here is about eight hundred miles from any Crimson Raider town. Before the Vault opening, it was called “Hodge Wild Wash,” courtesy of the locals at the time. Nothing but dirt in every mile.”

Sasha flipped one of her sandwiches with a buttery hiss. “And now?”

“Well,” Rhys sighed. “Now it’s a jungle. Like, full on, dense, scary bug-filled jungle. So there’s no telling the condition of the Vault, or even if it’s still accessible.”

Fiona paused her next flick, looking alarmed. “You sound...apprehensive. Vaughn, why does Rhys sound apprehensive? Can you please translate, because this is _not_ a language I’m ready to learn.”

Vaughn slowly dropped his feet from the coffee table to sit up, looking far more alert than he did earlier. “Rhys, is the plan changing?”

Rhys stared at the screen that hovered in front of him, which was fighting valiantly to stay bright and relevant through the artificial sunlight streaming through the window panes. Several options were presenting themselves, though none were appealing.

“We could still try and get in ourselves, claim that we got what we needed, and give Jack the locations and security overrides for the caches to placate him.”

“Which was the original plan,” Sasha prompted, moving steaming sandwiches onto plates.

“The changes to the climate were more than we anticipated," Rhys explained, as calmly as he could. "The overgrowth could be immense, and if Jack finds out we’re excavating on his land before we’ve recovered the tech, he’ll moonshot us, then launch an assault on the Edens, just to be a dick.”

“He wasn’t aware of the topography scanners we sent out when we arrived. Maybe he wouldn’t notice us, out in the middle of nowhere, untracked?” Vaughn looked up at Rhys, skeptical, but eternally optimistic. “Besides, we even _told_ his PA we’d been planetside without a contract, and there was no backlash.”

“As far as we know,” Fiona argued. “They could have had tabs on us the moment we entered atmo', even if it was on the other side of the planet. Half of Hyperion is contractor work, information and surveying they can procure without making it common knowledge. There’s no way to know what they know.”

Everyone was quiet as Sasha started passing over plates, and for a moment, Rhys was transported back to the Pandora of six years ago. He was sitting around an open campfire rather than an expensively fabricated kitchen table, and Sasha had been teaching him how to properly skin his very first kill -- an odd sort of rabbit, about the size of his boot. Vaughn had his head wrapped in his shirt, basking in the cool moonlight, and Fiona was babbling on about some misadventure she’d had with a woman named Athena. There had been a monster, a ferocious sort of thing the Edens only created to fuel horror movies, and a wealth of alien trinkets.

Rhys can still remember the swelling in his chest as she painted the picture for him that night. All of it -- the adventure, the success, even _Fiona,_ who grinned at him as she nursed two idiot boys and their ill-advised heroics that landed them lost in the middle of The Dust back to health -- _all_ of it had him enthralled.

That was where they began. Or rather, where they became who they were meant to be.

“So, we have two options,” Rhys began, trying to maintain the serenity their group desperately needed. “One, we can assure Jack our business is concluded and risk remaining in atmo' long enough to open the Vault, secure the tech, and leave before we can be apprehended. Or two, we inform Jack of our intentions, secure the team that we probably absolutely need to get through a _literal_ jungle, and politely request that, under the agreement we release all weapon caches to Hyperion, Jack lets us leave with Vault technology unharmed.”

Looks were traded, and a tense silence followed.

“Alright,” Rhys sighed. “Guess we’re absconding then. Let’s hope Jack has bigger things to worry about than our legitimacy.”


	4. paying dues for a decade plus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice references to other video game franchises that I like. This isn't to be clever, or to sprinkle in little easter eggs -- it's solely due to my utter lack of creativity.  
> (thank you guys for the support I love u)

_///_

_Abandoning the norm, and handling the harvest_  
_Measuring the worth by the depth of the hardships_  
_I welcome all the hatred you can aim at my name_  
_I held on to the sacred ways of how to play the game_

_///_

 

It took a lot for Jack not to immediately make his way to the executive suits and put a bullet through audacious little Rhysie’s skull. Angel made a compelling argument that had been intentionally overloaded with some of Jack’s favorite keywords, including “long-con,” “utilization of assets,” and “high ground.” She also said “please,” which was Jack’s _least_ favorite word of hers, but he was a weak man for her peppered-in beseeching. 

Still, he had some anger that needed to be redirected. 

The guard outside the cell was surprised to see him, but had been standing his post straight-backed and dedicated. For that, Jack begrudgingly gave the guy a chance to escape his misplaced wrath.

“Handsome Jack, sir! Did you want to speak to the prisoner?”

“Ain’t no other reason I’d be down here in the slums, princess. You the only security?”

The guard shook his head. “No sir. Surveillance is running in every corner, set on two separate servers, and he’s been equipped with a shock collar that can be activated remotely as a pulse, or triggered fully if he gets three meters away from his cell. He’s chained to the wall by hands and feet, though he’s got about half the room of free movement. There are several marks on the ground that indicate the distance he can reach.”

Jack stared the guard down, impressed. “I’m glad to see security taking him seriously as a threat. Who’s your supervisor, buddy? I’d like to extend my appreciation for someone finally doing their fucking job correctly.”

The guard paused. “You, sir. Though I do report to General Wilhelm if I have issues that require a higher tier of authority, but aren’t... immediately pressing.”

“ _You?_ You’re Head of Security? Oh, shit, you’re uh...” Jack shut his eyes, snapping his fingers as he tried to recall the names of Department Heads that sent in their weekly reports. “Uh… Ramsey, right?”

“Yes sir,” the man replied, sounding relieved that he wouldn’t be required to correct Handsome Jack. “My apologies for my absences at your monthly meetings, but General Wilhelm advised me that you prefer reading a report rather than dealing with someone face to face, as long as I do my job correctly.”

“Wilhelm is a smart guy,” Jack agreed. “But hey, I want to know why my Head of Security is pulling guard duty. Don’t you have your own tribe of expendables?”

“I do, sir. But, like you said, he’s a serious threat to this station. The only way I can ensure there are no mistakes is if I guard him myself.”

Jack grinned, pleased. “What’s your employee number, buddy?”

“Three-oh-three, four seven seven, sir.”

Jack brought the ID up on his ECHO, and a picture of Ramsey blinked into life. He’d worked for Hyperion for eight years, and had been personally promoted by Wilhelm a little over a year ago, after Jack had shot the old department head in front of his entire team for gross negligence. 

“I’m giving you a fifty-k bonus,” Jack elaborated, swiping his finger to send the request to the top of Angel’s queue. “For being a model Hyperion employee. Someone I can really count on.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ramsey responded, his face whiting out. “I... look forward to my continued employment in your company.”

Jack smiled, bemused. No sniveling, no grovelling. He’d have to thank Wilhelm for such a good find, and learn how to replicate Ramsey’s kind of loyalty. 

“You got a family, Ramsey?”

Ramsey nodded, his fingers tightening reflexively on his shotgun. “A wife, sir. We’re having a baby soon.”

“A baby!” Jack announced loudly, letting his voice echo down the hallway. He clapped Ramsey on the back, and the man jerked forward slightly, half from a quickly digested fear, half from the sheer force of Jack’s congratulations. “Fucking great, man. Kids! I love them. Hey, you name him Jack now, you hear? Jackie if it’s a girl. Right?”

Ramsey nodded. “Of course, sir.” He cleared his throat, apparently eager to change the subject. “Did you want Roland moved to an interrogation room?”

Jack waved him off. “Nah. I’ve got some anger to work out, and some questions I need answered. Beating the shit out of Roland with my bare hands will probably solve both of those problems, no tools required. Have a medical team ready to treat him once I’m done, though.”

 

///

 

Roland was proving to be uncooperative.

“Gonna break my fucking hand here, buddy,” Jack lamented, feeling the slippery warmth of blood coat his knuckles as he flexed his fingers in pain. “Then I’m gonna be _real_ mad, so why don’t we save us both the pain, and you tell me where Lilith is?”

Roland spat blood out onto the concrete, wobbling slightly where he stood. He was supported only by the restraints Jack had tightened, which hoisted him up like a scarecrow in a barren field. His skin was shimmering slightly in the shit lighting, a thin sheen of sweat and blood.

“Why don’t you go to hell, psychopath.” 

“Oh, _I’m_ the psychopath now? Have we forgotten Elpis so soon? By the way, my face still really fucking hurts from where Lilith burned Eridium tech half an inch into it, thanks for asking.”

He drove his fist into Roland's gut, just to hear the sound of ragged breath being forcibly ripped out. He wasn’t addicted to hurting others. No. At least, not like his enemies would loudly proclaim over whatever podium they could patch together with rubble and muted intelligence. But he couldn’t argue the satisfying rush of catharsis that came from watching Roland double over and absorb his blows like the proverbial punching bag he was always meant to be. 

“Fucking bandits. And don’t even get me started on the stunt you and her pulled in Opportunity. You _wrecked_ the place. Months of work, down the shitter, and for what? To throw a petulant little tantrum once you found out that Pandora is going to be _civilized,_ and you won’t be able to manipulate those desperate, idiotic leftovers that you’re the almighty king of the garbage heap? I’m trying to give people homes, you selfish prick, and you’re fighting that?”

“You’re a dictator,” Roland breathed, his voice raspy and wet from was likely a punctured lung. “No one wants to live under your terms. Under _Hyperion._ ”

Jack rolled his eyes and held up fingers as he counted. “Protection from bandit raids, housing and food for those that prove to be useful members of the community, an actual fucking doctor that doesn’t chop off more limbs than they’re trying to heal, and that sounds _bad_ to you? How about you let people make their own decisions, pal? Opportunity doesn’t look so bad from the inside, and you wrecked the place in a pity party knowing I’d _never_ let your kind in.”

“You’ll kill us all,” Roland said softly, voice muffled by the swelling. “My Crimson Raiders, Lilith, Moxxie… we’re all dead regardless. Guilt me all you want, Jack, but there’s no chance I’m getting off this station alive. I won’t tell you _or_ that Atlas punk a goddamn thing.”

“Atlas?” Jack asked, surprised. “The fuck did Atlas ask about?”

Roland coughed, sputtering up blood across his lips and wincing. “You, mainly. Little bit of Pandoran history. Up until they started asking the wrong questions, I thought they were here to help. And until that well-dressed prick took me out, I thought they might have been your latest attempts at infiltration.”

Jack scoffed. “Yeah, I heard Atlas knocked you on your ass. I’m ashamed of you, Roland, letting a kid like that get the drop on you. You’ve lost your touch.”

Roland didn’t look back up, and cast his eyes downwards in something akin to shame. “Like I said, thought they were here to help. He played me. Smooth talked me right out of my suspicions, then overloaded my fucking shield with that goddamn eye of his and knocked me out with the butt of his gun. Bastard.”

Jack felt his simmering hatred for Rhys twist violently with admiration, and the resulting mixture stuck to the inside of his gut like tar, a foreign substance that he couldn’t rid himself of. He groaned in frustration and landed another firm fist across Roland’s jaw. 

That one knocked a tooth out, which Roland spit onto the ground as he cursed and bit back his anguish. Jack’s hand was _throbbing_ , but he powered through it, refocusing his attention on one third of the party who had made his life a living hell so many years ago. 

“Alright. Back to the point - Lilith.”

“I’m not giving her up, Jack. I’m not.”

Jack shook the blood from his hand, as though he could also shake away the pain. “Awesome. Real noble of you, Roland. A real white knight. But if you don’t want to sell her out, that’s fine - the bitch is arrogant enough to come for you here, and we can watch together as my fucking _army_ roasty-toasts her.”

Roland held his head up by sheer force of will, straining against the pain and the bleariness in his eyes to level Jack with a look that could almost be considered judgmental, blood and swollen flesh notwithstanding. 

“You really can’t see the evil in yourself, can you? It’s sick, Jack. What you do to our camps, our people. What you did to that poor little girl--”

A snap-cracked second, a single word, and Jack’s world titled. His chest tightened in panic, and he turned and slammed his fist into Roland’s jaw again out of reflex. 

“The fuck did you say?” He spat, stepping forward frantically to grip Roland’s shoulders. Jostle him violently. “ _What_ little girl?! You answer me right now you sack of shit, or I swear to god--”

“The girl in the tank!” Roland shouted back, his normally stoic face a concoction of rage and pain. “We saw the video, Jack. One of her guards was killed during a convoy transfer, and we pieced together enough of his footage. What the fuck were you doing to her? She couldn’t have been more than ten, you _bastard_ , and she was _screaming--!”_

Jack hit him again. And again. His knuckles were slippery once more, and Roland’s hands struggled to reach his wrists, silently begging him to stop, _pleading_ to a man he so haughtily refused to surrender to. The sounds he made were pathetic and visceral, a far cry from the vigilante leader on the recruitment posters. Jack could _feel_ the Resistance crumbling with each solid strike to Roland’s flesh, a wrecking ball into their shoddily built walls of defiance. Without Roland, surely they would collapse, their memories of Angel wiped, and Jack was mindless with panic as he looked for a solve-all solution that rested only in quickly dismantling Roland’s hold. 

But his fist hesitated. He still had questions. He still had _answers._

He breathed deep, even as his hands shook. “You listen to me. Listen to what I-- ...That wasn’t what it seemed. I was trying to help her. I was trying to _save_ her.”

Roland only croaked in response, thick blood dripping off the splits in his lips.

“You don’t understand," Jack hissed. "None of you idiots ever fucking understand. I’m trying to fucking _help!_ I’m trying to… Fuck. Just. Tell me, one last time… Where. The fuck. Is Lilith?”

But Roland’s eyes were whiting out, rolling to the back of his head as unconsciousness took over. He became dead weight, supported only by the restraints, and his body lurched forward as his boots slid back across the concrete with a sharp sound like claws. Thick streams of blood splattered across the floor as Roland’s mouth fell open, and Jack stepped away from it, cursing the carelessness of his employees, cursing that goddamn tank, cursing the fucking bandits that twisted his words and fouled the things he cherished most. 

“Cleanup,” he snarled to Ramsey as he left. “Make sure he lives, I’m not nearly done with him.”

 

///

 

Jack gave them a conference room this time, mainly to pacify Angel, who insisted that “proper discussions between two well-respected industries usually don’t happen with you subjecting the other party to your oversized desk of despair, Dad.”

Plus, he wanted to make Atlas’s pathetic attempts to pawn him feel as legitimate for them as possible. It would be all the funnier when Jack declared the entire thing utter bullshit and dropped them off a ledge into one of Pandora’s spikier canyons. 

“Gotta admit kid, I was surprised when you requested a meeting concerning your departure. Thought we’d be gifted with Atlas presence indefinitely. Or until you honed in on that 'super important' data.”

Rhys sat to his right, like a verified COO normally would. It was brazen, choosing the seat next to Jack rather than across from him, announcing to the room that Rhys had subjected himself to Jack’s position of power and expressed a desire to unite the companies more fully and resign himself to a secondary title. 

Initially, Jack had felt a twinge of something delicate when Rhys bypassed the contenders chair, but he stamped it out. He was being played, and whatever harmony Rhys would pretend to be bolstering was crippled by Jack’s intimate knowledge of his lies. This entire display was just another set piece for Atlas’s fabricated story, and Jack refused to be told what part he’d play. 

“The information we found at the Salt Flats facility was surprisingly comprehensive. It contained the data I deemed to be my priority when I approached you, and I feel satisfied that the remaining Atlas facilities have nothing more to offer me than what I’ve already obtained.”

“Which is?” Jack prompted, wanting to watch the lie unfold. Wanting to watch Rhys dig himself deeper into that little bespoke hole in the ground. 

“Blueprints for a prototype assisted targeting system. They come standard on our heavier weaponry, but we’ve been researching ways to incorporate them into small arms. The former scientists stationed on Pandora had discovered a way to cheapen the cost of chip construction while still maintaining the processing power required for the higher fire rate of our more common armaments.”

 _God_ Jack wanted to grab the kid by the hair and slam his face into the table. The fucking _LIAR_ _._

Outwardly, he smiled. Kept his body relaxed. 

He glanced at Angel, who stood silently next to the CFO, Vaughn, in their respectful positions by the door. They were here only to witness and do their duties as assistants. 

“Angel, how’s it look on the legal end?”

Angel cleared her throat, more on edge than her usually demure facade would permit. Jack knew she wasn’t a fan of things going sour on this deal, and she had developed a particular attachment to the motley Atlas crew, but hard lessons early in life had instilled a sense of wonderment and trust in her father. She let the cards fall wherever Jack tossed them. 

“The team is still looking over the documents, but everything seems to be in order thus far. No major changes needed to be made outside of Hyperion now having complete control over leftover Atlas technology, as well as weapons, equipment, and any other items that were abandoned during the initial retreat. Whatever remains on Pandora after Atlas leaves atmo is officially yours to claim, Handsome Jack.”

Jack’s view slid back over to Rhys. “And a company man like yourself, you’re okay with that?”

Rhys stared back unflinchingly. “I am. I’m not here to pay for past mistakes, but I am obligated to acknowledge them. You fought for this planet, for this company, and you won. Everything is yours. I’m looking to regrow Atlas, not hang on the fringes of her undesirable past. As far as I’m concerned, everything on Pandora is nothing more than a relic of a company that failed to thrive, and Atlas can no longer be associated with such a claim.”

The little shit. Jack couldn’t help but marvel at the unwavering quality of Rhys’ voice, fully dedicated to his own lies. Oh, how he’d love this kid by his side during executive meetings, or when he was legally required to communicate with the board. What a beautiful, vicious team they’d make, outwitting the suits and feeding off of one another’s energy, catering to neither respect, nor validation. 

But unfortunately, Rhysie was due to have the back of his skull blown open once he led Jack to the Vault. Business was business. 

“I want to thank you for the opportunity to obtain this data, Handsome Jack,” Rhys continued, all pristine professionalism. “This project is going to revitalize my team, and you’ll start to see weapon output with targeting assisted programming within the next fiscal year. The money we’ll get from private security pre-orders alone will be enough to let you buy Tediore two times over.”

And Jack, god help him, _believed_ Rhys. If Angel hadn’t found that pinprick of information in an otherwise (mostly) forgettable video, Jack would have declared this little trade-off a Hyperion fucking victory. He couldn’t tell how deep the lie ran, only that it was there, it was tangible, and he was _aching_ to make Rhys feel as foolish as Jack did once blindsided. 

“See, it’s interesting you bring up profits, cupcake. Because it seems to me like, as primary shareholder for Hyperion stock, I’d stand to make a whole lot _more_ money if this technology came directly from my manufactures.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, as though he was truly ready to sit down and discuss _business._ Like this entire conversation wasn’t built on a huge pile of metaphorical “targeting assisted” bullshit. 

“You’re suggesting that Atlas license out the technology to Hyperion?”

“Hyperion _is_ the legal owner of stabilization technology,” Jack argued. “Wouldn’t it make sense that our next step would be precision targeting?”

Jack could see Vaughn twitch in his peripherals, likely _desperate_ to get a word in edgewise to Rhys. But the man next to him was cool and collected without the advisement, appraising Jack from their short distance with a small smirk, like they were sharing an inside joke. 

“Of course, Handsome Jack, as our holding company, Hyperion has the right to reorganize anything in the way that you see fit. If you deem your weapons development department to have a strong knowledge of computer engineering in syncing applications, then I will acquiesce to your judgement.”

Jack could _hear_ the laughter in Rhys’ words, like a record being played just a little too off-center, and Jack’s sudden disdain for the COO’s insouciant attitude was churning in his stomach. Rhys was insulting him, and it was _very_ thinly veiled. 

He pushed away from his chair and reached forward, running his fingers down the length of Rhys’ tie and smirking when the kid stiffened a fraction of an inch. When he hit the middle he tugged harshly at the silk, jolting Rhys into Jack’s personal space. 

“Listen, you little bitch,” he began lowly, “You’re in _my_ conference room, on _my_ space station, floating serenely through the space that surrounds _my_ fucking _planet._ You can start showing me some respect, or I can start pulling those cybernetics out of you one wire at a time. We clear, cupcake?”

Rhys recovered from the surprise quickly, stepping up to the new tension with the same confidence that he wore when he first stepped into Jack’s office. Like he could never be caught in a place he didn’t thrive. Like he had a foot in every clique, a story from every war, and a battle plan for every playing field. 

He met Jack’s eyes, and leaned in further, so that the tie Jack used as leverage became slack between them. Another power struggle lost. 

“The problem isn’t a lack of respect, Handsome Jack. The problem is pride. My team can integrate and perfect that technology in half a year, and you want to waste it by giving it to Hyperion like throwing a fucking streak to a stray. And you know that. I can play by your rules, Jack, but keep the rules within reason, and don’t you dare fucking insult me again by asking me to hand over technology for you to _ruin._ ”

Rhys’ face turned into a snarl at the last word, the only hint of him being affected more than he’d let on. Jack studied the kid’s face, realizing that he may have truly insulted Rhys in a way that wouldn’t be tolerated. The problem _was_ pride, pride for Atlas, and Rhys had far too much of it. Jack had only seen that type of fierce dedication in the mirror, but it was something he could _really_ get used to seeing across the conference table. 

“You’d make an excellent right hand man,” Jack mused, twirling Rhys’ tie between his fingers. “Shame about your loyalties.”

Rhys glared at him, but didn’t pull back. “So you’ve mentioned. Now, unless you’re planning on using that tie for something else, I’d like it back. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but an Ajay Ghale suit is expensive, and decidedly _not_ wrinkle free.”

Rhys’ eyes were bright but defiant, and Jack was half convinced he was being goaded into action. That if he were to use the tie to pull Rhys into him, the kid would _let_ him, and the spark of teasing he hid between those cold dismissals was really doing something for Jack.

A _real_ fucking shame how all of this would turn out. 

Jack released him, and Rhys moved back into his chair, adjusting his collar. 

“The station has cleared them for departure,” Angel relayed hesitantly. “Atlas can leave as soon as business is concluded here.”

Rhys looked towards Jack, waiting for his conclusions. There was mischief in his expression, like a child who got away with stealing cookies out of the jar, and Jack hated knowing that he almost fell for it. He would have figured that spark in Rhys’ eyes was from a heated interaction, that he had _caused_ it with their impromptu exchange. When in reality, Atlas was laughing at him, eternally pleased with his own manufactured high ground. 

He admired the little bastard. Almost as much as he hated him. 

“Atlas can keep the data,” he announced finally. “But after you implement it in your own weapons, I want it adjusted for Hyperion manufacturing so I can give it to my guys patrolling Opportunity. We’ve had an increase in bandit problems the past year.”

Rhys’ bowed his head in agreement. “Of course.” He stood up, and held out his hand. “As soon as the first wave comes off of production, I’ll have a transport sent to Helios.”

“Excellent,” Jack said, also standing. He took Rhys’ cybernetic hand in his, but rather than shaking it politely, he used the leverage to pull Rhys’ lithe form close. His free hand curled around Rhys’ hip, tight and commanding. He leaned in to whisper, giving them the smallest semblances of privacy. “I’m glad we could come to an honest arrangement. After all, you wouldn’t lie to me, would you Rhysie?”

Jack’s fingers tightened, and a shiver tore itself through Rhys’ body. But other than that, Rhys remained unshaken, his body pliant and aloof beneath Jack's grip.

“Nothing I’ve told you today has been a lie, _sir,_ ” Rhys replied softly, turning to look directly into Jack’s eyes, and the small emphasis he placed on the _sir_ replaced Jack’s blood with a heavy, dormant fire, ready to blaze at the smallest invitation. “Atlas facilities have nothing more to offer me.”

Jack reached out to cup Rhys’ chin, and the kid’s gaze turned fiery and furious. Jack could _feel_ the nervous energy radiating from him, like he was barely hanging on the precipice of playing a ruse or breaking Jack’s fingers. Jack was thriving on it.

“Atlas has nothing to offer you, no,” Jack agreed, letting his thumb run across the bottom of Rhys’ lip. “But is there anything else here you want?”

Angel cleared her throat loudly, which was probably for the best, because Rhys’ pupils had dilated, and they were on the cusp of something either very indecent, or very violent. 

“The rest of Atlas has been notified, and are currently making their way down to the loading bay,” she relayed. “We shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Jack looked up to meet her gaze. She wasn’t pleased with him. But hell, it’s her own fault for holding him to high standards after placing that kind of meal in front of him. It was lucky she got inappropriate innuendo rather than a strangled COO, all things considered. 

Rhys had already moved away, joining Vaughn at the door. He held out his hand for Angel to shake, which she did. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Angel. We truly appreciate everything you’ve done to make our stay comfortable.”

Angel smiled back, but it was wilted, like a flower trying to stand strong during the storm that would undoubtedly kill it. “Of course, Mr. Northcutt. I enjoyed your company. You’re... always welcome here.”

With that, Angel turned and left hastily, excusing herself to Jack and disappearing out through the glass door. Jack frowned as she vanished, closely followed by Rhys and Vaughn as they made their way to the docking bay. 

Some of his marks hit her harder than others. Something about Atlas had resonated with her, and their deaths would be her most difficult yet. 

This one was going to take a lot to forgive. 

 

///

 

Sasha had her feet up on control panel. Granted, she didn’t need to do any _actual_ piloting after inputting the destination into the ship’s navigational system, but it still made Rhys wince when he looked at her boots on his precious machinery. 

Fiona was, unsurprisingly, completely content with this behavior, and was busy doodling a 3D bow to stuff into the brim of her hat, complete with a skull and crossbones emblem. 

“So, no trouble with Douchebag Prime upstairs?”

Rhys sighed heavily, his pulse still strumming through his veins unpleasantly. Something felt _wrong,_ an anxious warning his mind was begging him to consider. He had scanned his transport beforehand, but there were no hidden trackers installed. Superficially, everything seemed amicable in their departure. 

“I don’t know. He acted weird before we left, but I could be reading too much into it.”

Vaughn laughed dryly from one of the back seats, where he was fretting over the influx of messages from Atlas employees. “Oh, you mean when he was trying christen that conference table by bending you over it?”

Fiona’s eyes got wide and Rhys heard Sasha’s feet slip off the panel in alarm. 

“He _what--?!”_

“Oh, _gross!_ ” Gaige lamented, her body still hidden behind the Deathtrap she was tinkering with. 

“Gaige, don’t listen to that--”

“As funny as that is, Rhys, I _told_ you I should have gone with--”

“--I didn’t need _help,_ ” Rhys argued, affronted at Axton’s input. 

Fiona turned conspiratorially to Vaughn, and Rhys was certain he was stuck in a middle school auditorium as she asked lowly, “Just like that, in front of you?”

Rhys groaned loudly. “ _No,_ Fiona. Vaughn, don’t answer her. You’ve screwed me enough already.”

“He did?” Sasha called from the front. “Because now I’m getting mixed stories--”

“Shut up, Sasha,” Rhys snapped back. “No one screwed _any_ one on _any_ conference table, alright? Jack got a little close, sure, a little touchy, but he was trying to psyche me out, nothing more.”

A short silence fell, and Fiona’s eyes darted back and forth to Vaughn, trying to egg him into spilling more info. Vaughn, weak under pressure, didn’t even last half a minute. 

“Yeah but...you didn’t seem to...hate it, you know?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but Vaughn was right. He _didn’t_ hate it. And if they wanted to put his personal life on display for the class, they could get the _whole_ upturned bucket. 

He shrugged, smiling. “I mean, c’mon. The tie pulling thing? Kinda hot.”

A chorus of upset groans and protests followed that announcement, and Rhys grinned at his victory, settling in to rest for the remainder of the two hour trip. 

 

///

 

“Angel, honey?”

“It’s fine, Dad.”

Jack hovered outside the door to her bedroom, where she had fled after her goodbye to Atlas. He reached for the doorknob, but hesitated, mindful of what breaking a boundary might mean for a teenager who had only recently begun to enjoy them. 

“I’m sorry, baby. I know you liked him, but you know what happens to people who lie to me.”

That had, evidently, been the wrong thing to say, and Angel’s voice grew hot with disdain. 

“This isn’t like that asshole who was siphoning money from the PR budget, Dad--!”

“--Hey, language--”

“--Or the Resistance when they didn’t admit to killing your archaeologists, or like that woman in cyro who tried to sell the tech to Maliwan, or--”

“--Angel. Angel!” Jack raised his voice just enough to calm her down and stifle her rant. He took a deep breath to lower his agitation levels before continuing. “Sweetheart, listen. This is what needs to be done. Maliwan, they didn’t even agree to the trade with that woman, right? Tell me why, baby.”

A shuffle came from behind the door before Angel answered, resigned. “Because they know what you do to people who work against you.”

“Exactly,” Jack answered. “Big company like this, we’re gonna have enemies. And the only way to ensure they respect us is to show that we don’t tolerate that kind of bullshit. You know that. You’ve _seen_ it, baby girl.”

“I get that Dad, I _do,”_ Angel protested. “But this isn’t like that. You _own_ Atlas, and you don’t even recognize what they could offer you because you’re so wrapped up on this Eridium garbage. And they all have to die, for what? So you can take what they’ve found, what they went after with the same passion _you_ did? He’s the only other person I’ve seen as obsessed with this stuff as you are, and the only thing you can think about is killing him, rather than taking him on as a colleague.”

Angel sniffed, the only sign of emotion outside of anger and exasperation.

“And those two women, Dad, the sisters. They were so nice to me, they didn’t care I was young. Sasha explained how the transport’s fuel efficiency worked while we waited for the gear distribution, and Fiona made me a bracelet with little angel wings on it. She left it on my datapad when they got back, but I _know_ she left it for me. It’s the only present I’ve ever gotten from someone that wasn’t you,” she added, and Jack’s heart clenched in guilt and shame. “And the _girl,_ the engineer, she’s just as young as I am. Does she die too, Dad? Can’t you _use_ any of these people? Couldn’t you use _Rhys_ , instead of wasting him like this?”

 _Yes,_ he thought immediately. He could. Atlas was powerful, and they had made incredible advancements that Jack’s own scientists were still coming up with labels for. To unite their resources and knowledge, holding company and subsidiary, it would boom both of them and thrill stockholders. They would have made a brilliant CEO and COO pair, operating in tandem. Plus, Rhys’ mind was an unfortunate thing to waste. 

But the _lies._

“I’m sorry, baby. They came to our doorstep, they lied to us, and, hell -- who knows what’s in the Vault. What if they want to use it against us, to hurt us?”

Angel snorted. “Right. Because they really come across as the _mass murdering for giggles_ type, don’t they? She made me a _bracelet."_ A pause, as Angel considered her next words.  "...You know Dad, the only reason he wasn’t honest with you about this venture, was because he knew you’d _never_ work with him. Imagine what could have happened if he wasn’t too worried about being airlocked the moment he told you he had information on a Vault.” She sniffled mirthlessly. “I know you’re trying to protect this company, but you don’t seem all that concerned about growing it.”

Jack listened, his forehead pressed against the wood of her door. Silence settled over them as they both thought about the futures neither of them even expected to have, fruitlessly trying to get their own points across without dismissing the other. It was a communication that had taken them a _long_ time to perfect. Finally, Jack pulled away. 

“I’ve got to go, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon.”

But for the first time in a long time, she didn’t answer.

 

///

 

“Well this sucks,” Fiona commented idly, trying to stomp down on a particularly overgrown cluster of vines so she could move past. “I’d almost take the sand dunes and heat stroke over this.”

They had been walking for a little over an hour through the newly sprouted jungle. Their shuttle couldn’t find a clear enough landing zone through the thick canopy of trees, and they had been forced to disboard about three klicks out from where Rhys’ coordinates led them.

“For a Vault Hunter, you sure complain a lot,” Rhys responded offhandedly, peering through the dense shade to look for a natural path. 

Fiona scoffed. “You clearly haven’t met many Vault Hunters. And let me lead, you look like an old lady trying to figure out how to cross a street.”

Rhys nodded, his drive to argue sapped from nerves. The longer they were out here, the longer it gave Hyperion an opportunity to track them down, if Jack so desired it. Something about their departure felt _wrong,_ too much innuendo in Jack’s wordplay, but he couldn’t put his finger on how he slipped up. Unless Jack had received info from an outside source, Rhys should have no inclination to believe he’d given Jack a reason to distrust him. 

But his gut was churning with anxiety, and some deeply buried intuition was telling him to get back on his ship and _flee._

Fiona took charge and began cutting a way through the flora, directing Axton when she needed help with a particularly rough passage. The remainder of their party had stayed with the shuttle, and though it was never spoken aloud, they all knew why. If something were to happen to them, Vaughn, Sasha and Gaige were the future of Atlas, with Vaughn providing the knowledge, Sasha the defiance not to get bowled over by the board, and Gaige as Rhys’ prodigy, a girl to carry on his legacy. 

Fiona was the adventurer. She was no good in stuffy meetings and was skittish around executives, but out here, she thrived. She knew her place beside Rhys, and it wasn’t to advise him on marketing strategies or who the biggest bullshitter in the room was. She was here to find a Vault, and to help keep him alive. 

And Axton… Well, try telling Axton he couldn’t come along to an unnatural jungle to find a buried piece of Eridium tech inside a long-hidden cavern of riches. 

“Should be close,” Rhys muttered, scanning the area for any sign of buried tech. “The coordinates might have been shifted slightly, but radius should--”

He halted as his ECHOeye picked up the edge of a foreign material buried at least ten feet into the dirt. 

“Fiona, wait.” He did a thorough scan. “There’s a structure, just here. It’s _huge._ Goes on for about a mile East, and at least half of that deep. This has to be it.”

Fiona _bounded_ over, her face split wide with a grin. “Where? Do we dig? Will it come up? Is it a magic word? Would we have to say it in Eridian, do you think?”

There was a snap behind Rhys, and he turned quickly to access it, but his vision went white as a surge of pain flared from his head. The agonizing spasm twisted its way down to his cybernetic arm and rendered it useless, nothing but a heavy weight that twitched wildly in defiance before shutting down, causing Rhys to sag to his right before he could balance himself. His vision was a blur of color and light as his organic eye tried to adjust with the lack of it's counterpart.

He could hear Fiona shouting his name, and caught sight of Axton raising his rifle to the yellow smear of Hyperion soldiers that had flanked them in the shadows. 

“Ax, no,” he hissed, trying to blink through the debilitating pain to right himself. Axton caught his voice and listened without hesitation, lowering his rifle and allowing it to be wrestled away from him. 

Rhys heard Jack before he saw him, heavy footsteps that approached him from behind, just as cocky and confident in the field as he was in the boardroom. 

“Oh, Rhysie,” Rhys heard him sigh, like a disappointed parent who had caught their petulant kid sneaking out. “Turn and face me, pumpkin.”

Rhys didn’t. His Eye was still shorting out, studiously trying to regain control over whatever illegal cybernetic dampener Jack had used on him, but he could still sense the direction of Jack’s voice. Rhys waited, testing his patience. 

It didn’t take long. 

“I said _turn_ \--”

As soon as Jack had fisted his hand into Rhys’ hair to force him around, Rhys had whipped his Aries from its holster and pressed it into the tender skin of Jack’s neck. 

 

///

 

They stood, frozen, their bodies too close as they accessed the other in their silent, miserable hatred. Rhys’ one functional eye was burning with a fiery distemper, and the other was flickering orange, like it had one too many shots and couldn’t quite pull itself off the ground. Jack watched the struggle with mild surprise, feeling the unexpected barrel of Rhys’ revolver bruising the skin beneath his chin. 

“Bad move, Rhys,” he advised lowly. “ You might break the shield at this distance, but the backlash will kill you. Not that it matters -- my men can put a bullet through your head before you can squeeze the trigger.”

To emphasize his point, he tugged at Rhys’ hair again, pulling the kid’s head back just slightly, and he could have sworn that Rhys _growled._

“Take the chance then, Jack,” Rhys spat, not a single note of fear in his eyes. “Let’s find out.”

And goddamn it all, but Jack adored him in that moment. His hand tangled in Rhys’ stupid, styled hair, exposing his neck, his eyes wild and fearless, all while Rhys had his finger on the trigger of the gun pressed straight into Jack’s jugular. It was intoxicating. The push and pull of their tumultuous relationship was _way_ better than wrapping his hands around the neck of some whimpering little shit who never fought back. 

He hadn’t realized he’d been craving the competition. 

“You lied to me, sweetheart,” Jack crooned. “Now, I don’t know how things are done at Atlas, but _here,_ we show some goddamn respect for our superiors.”

“Good to hear,” Rhys bit back. “Because in this situation, the superior happens to be me. You want into that Vault, you need me.”

Jack rolled his eyes, disappointed. 

“C’mon pumpkin, you’ve already used that generic bullshit once, give me some fresh material. How many fingers is it gonna take, huh? How many until you break, and ‘fess up to whatever else you’ve been hiding?” His gaze shifted over to the woman, Fiona, who was being held at gunpoint. She looked immediately alarmed to be given attention. “Or how about I start with Ms. Erins here?”

Rhys’ finger put pressure on the trigger, a warning, and Jack could feel the static tension of electricity in the revolver, spring loaded and ready to barrel through Jack’s shield before literally sucking the life out of him. Clever little weapon. Trust Atlas to devise something that would get to the point of the kill as quickly as possible, then reap an immediate reward from it. 

“Enough games, Jack. We can still salvage this if you stop being a fucking bastard long enough to _listen._ ”

His words echoed Angel’s, and the hurt thrummed deeply in him. He felt his proverbial upper hand slipping as a wave of momentary doubt rolled through him, threatening to fling him back to the shore of self-preservation. He shoved it back and pushed through, swallowing Angel’s good judgement for the sake of his own pride.

“Rhysie, I don’t negotiate with backstabbers. Now, you’re absolutely going to die, but I respect your tenacity, so I’ll let you choose: you can die before we open this Vault and secure the tech for _Hyperion,_ or you can die _after,_ once you’ve seen what you lost. Which one’s calling out to you, babe?”

Rhys wasn’t amused.

“The Vault is coded to open in the presence of Eridian tech, and for nothing else,” he spat. “The composite that’s housing _this_ Vault is some form of boronic nitrate, something we haven’t been able to replicate, and it’s _extremely_ tolerant to heat. You can’t blast your way through this one, Jack. It’s only meant for someone who did their research.”

Well _shit._ Jack studied Rhys’ face before releasing his hair and pushing him away. Rhys kept his gun trained on Jack even as he stumbled away from the forceful shove. 

“Put the gun down, Atlas, and we talk,” Jack sighed, as though he were explaining a household rule to a particularly stubborn guest. 

“Like hell,” Rhys snarled. “Counter-offer: I keep the gun _up,_ and you _listen._ ”

“You’re so stupid -- you’re _surrounded,_ idiot!” Jack cursed, gesturing wildly to the throng of Hyperion soldiers. “Wilhelm can have you on the ground in two seconds flat.”

Rhys’ eyes darted to the man who stood solemnly behind Jack, awaiting orders. He towered over the other men, and looked startlingly… inhuman. Jack was well-versed in the reactions he could get from touting Wilhelm out in public. Rhys swallowed the discomfort and refocused. 

“And I can have three rounds in your chest before that happens, Jack. My team came here knowing we had a good chance of not making it home, but I doubt that dying was on your list of shit to do today,” Rhys retorted, and Jack glared. 

Normally, Jack would challenge the bait. But part of him truly believed Rhys would take a round to the head just to prove himself right.

“Guns down,” Jack ordered to his soldiers, and Rhys’ eyes went wide, clearly surprised. 

Hyperion lowered their weapons hesitantly, as if Jack had started speaking with a heavy accent and they couldn’t quite figure out the dialect. Many of them turned to one another, as if verifying the command was, in fact, real. 

“Let my team go, including the ones at the shuttle,” Rhys demanded next, and Jack felt his impatience rising. 

“They’ll be fine, princess,” Jack answered. “They won’t like their accommodations much, but they’ll live. If you have any sense of self-preservation, you’ll recognize that I’m doing you a _favor_ right now, and you’ll _lower your fucking gun_.”

Jack watched as the internal struggle of whether to fight took place in Rhys head. Finally, after what felt like several seconds of heavy situational analysis, Rhys’ holstered his revolver gracefully, as though it had been his idea all along. 

“Perfect. Now talk to me, Atlas.”

Rhys, who was expertly hiding the nervous quivering in his fingers, glared at Jack. 

“Disable the dampener.”

Jack mused thinking it over. “Nah.”

“You son of a--”

“Neat things, aren’t they?” Jack interrupted, pulling the small device out of his pocket. “You’d be immune to a regular electromagnetic pulse, obviously. But dampeners seem to do the trick. Wave after wave designed to hinder your processors without actually frying the electronics. Totally illegal to use them around any human with cybernetic implants, but for you, kid, I’m willing to break a few laws. A few moral codes, even, considering how many times I’ve backed down from blowing holes in you.”

“I’m thrilled,” Rhys deadpanned. “But I need my Eye. I can’t open the Vault without it.”

Jack paused. “Explain.”

Rhys grunted in annoyance, once again having to shift his weight to evenly distribute the cumbersome addition of his right arm. 

“This Vault is special,” he began. “It’s said to house--”

“--yeah, the _pinnacle of Eridian technology,_ I know. I got the cliffnotes.”

Rhys looked alarmed, his orange eye glowing and fading like a dying strobe light as he stared at Jack in surprise.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Chatter,” Jack said simply, and Rhys groaned, shutting his eyes in dismay. 

“Fucking social media,” he snarled. _"_ _Fuck._ ”

“Yeah, rue, remorse, save me the trip Rhysie. Back up to the points I give a shit about.”

Rhys chanced a glance at Fiona and Axton, who were hovering nearby, their arms held behind their backs by their guards. The sight must have softened something in Rhys, and when he faced Jack again, he seemed was resigned to his position. 

“You’re aware this isn’t our first Vault, then. Previous Vaults, they were designed to be raided by those who could prove themselves worthy enough to collect the bounty. For armament, they were usually guarded by a triggered protector of some kind -- generally something giant and pissed off. The qualifications for entry into this Vault are different, though. This one requires a mastery of Eridian technology, of some aspect of their knowledge.”

“And you believe you have a claim to that title?” Jack sneered. “Not to bust your bubble kiddo, but you aren’t the only one that’s been up close and personal with that alien bullshittery.”

Rhys’ interest ticked up. “You opened a Vault on Elpis. I heard. What did it teach you?”

Jack faltered, but he knew he’d dug himself into a hole. There were too many ears present, too many people who could piece together a puzzle he’d long kept hidden in the box. 

“Eridium applications,” he answered finally. “And before you can talk shit, no, _not_ slag, and not refinement. It’s a classified project, far different than what Atlas has ever done.”

“You won’t be telling me more, will you?” Rhys asked. 

Jack shrugged. “Maybe. Killing you is still on the docket, and if I’m planning on spilling any of my company secrets, it’ll definitely be to a dead man walking.”

“Fine,” Rhys shrugged, and if the idea scared him, he didn’t show it. “But if you want to get into _this_ Vault, you need to shut off that dampener. It’s our ticket in, since I can’t guarantee the validity of what you’re telling me.”

“Your _Eye?”_ Jack asked. _"T_ _hat’s_ the technology you’ve mastered?”

He knew he sounded dismissive, but the way Rhys scowled at him, Jack thought he might have declared Rhys’ entire career a massive waste of time. 

“This Eye is the most advanced piece of technology in the known universe,” Rhys snapped out. “Our robotics department was already making strides, and our engineers were blending those applications flawlessly to organic pursuits, but the technology the Eridians gave me bolstered it to heights I never knew could be achieved. We were able to develop a whole cybernetic unit from dust, and our AI can learn at unprecedented rates with only minimally invasive neuroscientific procedures--”

" _A_ _lright,_ please, enough nerd-speak,” Jack groused. "You’re super proud of that malfunctioning piece of garbage lodged into your head, I got it. Let’s change gears here; you’re telling me that, in order to get into this Vault, a person has to prove that they understand Eridian tech and are able to cultivate it into something usable for the species?”

 _"Yes,"_ Rhys glowered. “So please, shut off the fucking dampener before this headache rips my skull open.”

Jack considered his options. Rhys would be hard-pressed to lie, but expectations were a mixed bag with Atlas, and Jack wasn’t overly eager to stuff his hand in and dig around. On the other hand though, Rhys was passionate about this Vault, had even disfigured himself to prove himself worthy enough for it. And who knows how long he’d been vying for this moment, how many years he’d spent looking for this one particular piece of Eridian gold. Screwing Jack over was probably the least of his priorities, currently.  

“Alright, Atlas,” Jack agreed, flipping the switch on the device. “Let’s see how smart you really are.”

Jack watched as physical relief coarsed through Rhys’ body, untightening his muscles and relaxing his nerves, like someone had wrung him out until he was free from the drenching weight of his own enhancements. A slow pulse of light replaced the flickering in his eye as it booted back up.

“Fuck,” Rhys breathed. “Thank you.”

Jack didn’t answer. The sincerity in Rhys’ voice took him by surprise, and he didn’t know how to respond. Rhys didn’t wait for him to drum something up, and instead turned towards the expanse of jungle before them. 

“You’ll want to move your guys back,” Rhys advised, peering towards the ground as his ECHOeye began to radiate that trademark orange glow. “The door opens horizontally, and at this point, I don’t care how many Hyperion bodies I’ll have to walk across when I get down there.”

“So savage,” Jack teased, and part of him meant it. A thwarted kid having a temper tantrum was one thing, but a kid who had bested Roland and murdered his own boss having no qualms about killing Jack’s underlings out of spite? Well, that was hitting a lot of Jack’s buttons. “Wilhelm, get them back or let them die. Your choice.”

Wilhelm began organizing the subdued chaos, instructing the soldiers to assist in getting Axton and Fiona away from Rhys’ general direction and well behind Jack, the only place that could be deemed relatively safe. 

As Rhys studied the ground beneath them, eyes glassy and unfocused as he was likely submerged in an onslaught of data, Jack moved up behind him quietly, slipping his fingers around the grip of Rhys’ revolver.

“Ah ah,” Jack cautioned as Rhys jumped and jerked his hand instinctively towards his thigh. “Just safeguarding my throat, Rhysie. You have a bit of a temper.”

“That’s rich,” Rhys mumbled, refusing to act as Jack put his head on Rhys shoulder and pressed the barrel of Rhys’ own gun into the small of his back. “Coming from you, anyway. You were going to airlock me the moment I stepped into your office.”

“True,” Jack replied, feeling Rhys’ warmth against his chest like a beacon of every bad decision he’d ever made. “A pretty face and sharp tongue keep saving you though, babe. Now, how about you open that Vault for me?”

Rhys shuddered, and Jack pressed the barrel further into his spine, borderline obsessed with feeling Rhys’ defiance so up close and personal. 

“We need to move back,” Rhys explained, his voice laced with something heavier than Jack was used to hearing from him. “At least four feet. I’d like to make that happen without you blasting my spine open.”

Jack grinned devilishly, and he knew Rhys could feel it. 

“Go ahead Rhys,” he suggested. “Take a step back.”

Rhys did, cautiously, and Jack gripped his hip tighter to encourage the backwards movement. He remained absolutely still as Rhys pressed against him fully, the gun squashed between them as Jack turned his face towards Rhys neck, tempted to take what he wanted before it was gone. Rhys’ pulse had picked up, and while his face remained impassive, the feeling of heat between them and Rhys’ hard exhale when Jack gripped his hip _hard_ to emphasize his want was a neon light for how badly it affected him. 

But Jack, unbelievably, had larger wants. And the Vault was _so_ close. 

So he moved back, feeling Rhys relax as he was dragged backwards without the emphasis on bodily contact. 

“That’s fine,” Rhys stopped him. “Now shut up, for like, two seconds.” 

If Jack listened carefully through the ever-present noise of the jungle around them, he could almost hear the whir of Rhys’ implants operating, a hum that seemed to course through the kid like low voltage shock. He felt _alive,_ both organically, and mechanically _._

Before Jack could get another smart-assed comment in, the jungle beneath them began to tremble like a great, horrible beast aroused from slumber. Cracks spiderwebbed their way across the ground as though someone had smashed it lazily with a bat. The pieces began to slide inwards as the ground opened up to swallow them whole; a small sliver of black slowly opened to reveal a gaping hole, illuminated by nothing but a faint purple light. A terrible sound accompanied the creaking patter of lush greenery falling into the chasm, something straight out of Jack’s trauma-induced nightmares: the sound of crying machinery tearing itself apart after years of neglect. 

The men behind them startled backwards, away from the cavern that was swallowing trees and rocks with detached efficiency. Jack and Rhys remained where they were, revolver still cocked at the small of Rhys’ back, and together they watched as the doors finally creaked to a stop, allowing them a view of the untouched, glowy staircase that invited them down into inky blackness. 

“Let’s go together, huh Rhysie?” Jack tried to tease, but his interest was steadily pulling away from Rhys and down into the Vault. “No protectors on this one, right?”

“No,” Rhys replied, sounding breathless. “The challenge was the tech. That’s all.”

Jack tried to get his bearings and make decisions wisely, but it was difficult to shake his attention away from what awaited him. “Still though. Simmons, Cordova, on me!” Two guards broke ranks and flocked to Jack’s side. “Wilhelm, you’re in charge up here. Make sure our Atlas guests are comfortable.”

Wilhelm only nodded, but he knew what Jack wanted. The guy might be slipping further and further from humanity, but it didn’t mean he’d lost any of his efficiency. 

Jack pushed the barrel of the revolver into Rhys back to get him moving. “Alright kids, let’s get down there. Loot don’t loot itself.”

 

///

 

The stairway was wide, but the steps were shallow and covered in debris, making each foothold feel less secure than the last as they made their way down. As the daylight began to fade to a perfect patchwork square of blue in an otherwise black and purple quilt of their surroundings, Rhys had finally had enough. 

“Could you get the gun out of my back? Everytime you step after me you ram the fucking thing into my spine, and it’s not great, man.”

Jack hesitated, but pulled away. “Yeah, alright, my arm’s hurting anyway. Heavy little thing for a twig like you to be toting around.”

“Fuck you, Jack. And transfusion cores aren’t light. You’d know that, if Hyperion had managed to figure out how to implement them in anything. I bet Maliwan would be able to license it out to you, if you were willing to bend over for their legal t--”

He was cut off as Jack slammed him face first into the wall. The pain was initially absent through the adrenaline the movement created, but the sharp sting and resulting throb sprung to life as Jack leaned in. 

“You’re making a habit out of pushing my buttons, cupcake. All the right ones, and all the wrong ones. Would you like to find out what happens if you push too far?”

Rhys could only wince as his headache returned, and he could taste blood on his lips. He’d spent too long smart-mouthing his way into the hearts of the public and the pockets of investors, but Jack was easily meeting him head on, one stubborn brick wall trying to outdo another. He couldn’t decide which hurt more: his bruised face and shoulder, or his pride. 

Maybe his decency, since Jack was hitting a few buttons of his own. 

“Just keep the gun in your pants,” Rhys mumbled into the cold stone, spitting blood from his mouth. “And everything else, for that matter.”

Jack pulled him back up, and Rhys straightened his jacket irritably, trying to ignore the sting on his cheek. He could hear one of the guards sniggering to himself -- Simmons -- and recognized him as the same disrespectful asshole that doubted Rhys’ ability to hack into Atlas facilities. A flash of resentment momentarily outweighed the embarrassment, and he barreled his fist into the guy before he could (wisely) think twice about it. Normally, he’d use his left out of respect, but he was right handed traditionally, and honestly, _fuck_ Hyperion, and _fuck_ that guy. 

Simmons was whipped to his side as Rhys’ cybernetic fist cracked against his jaw. It was broken instantly, and the guy howled in pain as he fell against the wall and cradled his face. His wail was punctuated with broken sobs, and Rhys could just barely see where his jaw had gone lopsided, and several of his teeth were sliding out of his mouth in a rush of blood like icebergs breaking off from the caps. 

To his left, Jack burst out laughing, one arm holding his stomach as he bent over, pointing outrageously to his broken, busted soldier. 

“Holy shit!” Jack cackled. “You fucking idiot! Dude’s got a badass robot arm, and you want to _laugh_ at him?” He doubled over again in laughter, and Rhys’ felt an unwelcoming sense of pride swirling deep in his gut. 

“Come on,” he said, eager to end this mess. “Let’s get downstairs. Present company is leaving a lot to be desired.”

Jack straightened up, but he was still chuckling, tears in his eyes. “I dunno princess, I’m having a great time.” He gestured forward with Rhys’ gun carelessly, as though this were a trek through the mall. “But go ahead Atlas, lead on.”

Rhys glared at him, the ache of his cheek still prominent enough to find no humor in the situation, but he said nothing and continued his haphazard trek down the staircase. Jack followed immediately, still sniggering, and the two guards fell in behind them, with Simmons still holding his face and dribbling blood as he stumbled in pain. Cordova was fumbling in his pack for a Rejuvenator, and Rhys, spiteful as all hell, secretly hoped he wouldn’t find one. 

They didn’t have much longer to go. The radiant purple glow began to amplify, signalling the end of their trek as the stairs cut off into a beautifully carved circular enclosure.  The blast-proof walls were chiseled smooth, and purple veins of light twisted their way across the stone expanse before collecting at the center, like blood vessels branching out from a heart. In the middle, illuminated by the cluster of purple glow, was an intangible sphere that hovered serenely a whole ten feet above the ground. 

Jack, his eyes wide, moved in closer before Rhys could even consider stepping down from the bottom of the staircase. 

“What the hell is it?” 

Rhys instantly understood the confusion as he found the correct muscles to move himself the few paces forward to join Jack. The sphere was… alien. There was something about it that was almost imperceptible, a faint idea that it was both there, nowhere, and everywhere, consuming the air around them while still maintaining the benevolence of letting them live in its atmosphere. A strange shadow seemed to engulf it at times, a moving tesseract that strained Rhys’ eyes to try and comprehend. 

“Scan it,” Jack ordered, but Rhys shook his head. 

“There’s no reading. It’s just a...garble. Like lines of code but it’s static, and there’s _so_ much of it.”

Rhys took a few steps closer, only a few meters away from the thing. He felt compelled to. Something about it was terrifying, but invigorating, and every instinct he had called out for him to embrace the luminescent artifact. 

Accurately judging Rhys’ motivation, Jack reached out to grab his elbow. “Slow down, pumpkin. If anyone’s touching that thing, it’s gonna be me.”

“I got you in here,” Rhys muttered furiously. “I’ve worked my whole career for this, and I deserve it way more than you do.”

Jack’s mood soured. “You’ve no idea what I’ve sacrificed, Atlas. You forget your place real quick, don’t you? Or do I need to remind you about your current si--”

Jack was cut off as a pulse wave _throbbed_ through the air around them, making Rhys feel a nauseating sense of weightlessness as the gravitational force of the room plummeted. A sound hung heavy in the air, a deep bass of machinery and something undeniably alien, something that had Rhys’ blood pooling in his head and giving his vision a deathly red tinge. 

Through his altered senses, he could feel the ground beneath his feet vibrating horribly, shaking the foundation and teetering him off balance. Jack stood several feet away, holding his hands over his ears as he tried to keep upright, staring at the sphere with wide, engrossed eyes. Rhys turned, and saw the artifact pulsing and twisting violently, the culprit of the Vault’s undoing. 

He tried to yell, to scream for a retreat back up the staircase, but the buzzing was deafening, and he was close to blacking out. His very blood seemed to boil from the shake and activity of the Vault, as though it were alive within him, intent on siphoning the life from his form to further power itself. He could feel his teeth grinding together from the intensity of the vibration, like the sound was pulling his body apart at a molecular level. He looked back towards Jack, who was still gazing wildly at the sphere, before the thrashing of the guards behind them tore his attention away. 

He turned just in time to see them screaming, their heads in their hands as blood began to ooze from their eye sockets, their ears, and their noses. They cried out, thrashing their heads recklessly, plagued with some inner turmoil as blood and viscera began to dribble from their mouths. They were being dissolved from the inside out. Their eyes began to melt and pop, liquifying to run down their cheeks and leaving gaping black holes that looked towards the heavens while the men screamed in agony, blood gushing from their mouths like the spurting of a neglected hose. 

Simmons fell first, twitching as nerves spasmed and died across his body. Cordova was next, crumpling atop his partner like a ragdoll that had been tossed aside. Rhys stared at them, wide-eyed and horrified, and the vibrating became more intense. Fear nearly crippled him as this new reality engulfed him like a rising tide: he was going to end up like them. He was going to die. His head _ached,_ and he could feel the blood in his own ears, pulsing frantically through his veins, warning him of something completely and utterly _wrong_. 

Instinctively, he grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him away from the sphere, pointing to the two bodies on the ground behind them. Jack’s gaze landed on them, bleary and unfocused, before looking past them towards the staircase. He nodded, dazed. Together, they began to run. 

They made it all of four paces before a final pulse burst out of the sphere, and Rhys felt himself being picked up, weightless for entirely different reasons, and experienced one tiny, insignificant moment of bliss before being thrown mercilessly against the wall from the force of the blast. 


	5. the rubber band went snap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting date changed to Sundays. Thank you again to everyone who has yelled at me in the comments; you're all so wonderful, and I cherish every little exclamation point with an almost concerning passion.

_///_

_Cookies for the road, took me by the soul_  
_Hunger for the drama, hunger for the nurture_  
 _Gonna take it further_  
 _The hurt feels like murder_

_///_

 

 

Fiona’s face swam above him, looking decidedly unimpressed. 

“You’re lucky you’re not dead.”

Something deep in the recesses of his mind told him he had lived this scene before. Fiona was both new, yet entirely familiar; though current him, the one passed out on his back, would have sworn on his life he’d never met the broad. 

Words came easily, as though he’d memorized the script. “Where am I?”

“The Dust,” Fiona answered calmly, and as if the place waited only to be called into existence, the landscape formed around him. Stinging gusts of hot sand blew past them, covering Rhys's already half-buried legs with another fine layer of Pandoran terrain. His whole body hurt, he knew that, but the pain was somewhat distant, like he couldn’t remember how to feel it. 

“Vaughn,” Rhys croaked out instinctively. “My friend, Vaughn.”

“That his name?” Fiona asked, raising an eyebrow. “Thought it was _Bllugggh,_ since that’s the only thing he’s said so far.”

Rhys knew he was annoyed. He glared at Fiona as best he could, but there was amusement within him, like he was happily re-reading a story he’d failed to see the appeal in the first time around. 

He tried to sit up. His vision still swam. 

“Hold on, sparky,” she cautioned, moving away from him. “Where are you planning on going?”

Rhys looked around, spotting the flaming wreckage of their once expensive car, newly accompanied by the dingiest looking caravan he’d ever had the displeasure of viewing. He eyed it distastefully, before realizing it was probably his only ride out of this hellhole. 

Fiona tracked his eyesight. “Oh, I get it. You think I’m here to save you. Charming. I want answers, buddy. _Then,_ just maybe, I’ll give you a ride.”

“Answers?” His mouth tasted like sand and ass. _Fuck_ he was thirsty. 

“Yeah. Where’d you get that fancy arm, for one. And why do you have _Atlas_ weaponry on you? Also, what the hell did you think you were doing, trying to raid a goddamn bandit camp looking like you fell out of an ad for corporate espionage? You’re like a _beacon_ of wealth for these idiots.”

Rhys grimaced and pushed himself up from his elbows. Fiona sat back, wary.  

“Look,” Rhys started, and his joints groaned in protest. “I will pay you literal, usable money to not make me answer any of those questions, and give me a ride regardless.”

“Oh, you mean the money I took from your pockets while you were unconscious?” She fished Rhys's damaged wallet out of her pocket and examined it. “Might want to get a new plan. Also, you’re missing a shoe. Found it a-ways back, so you can add that into the trade.”

Rhys threw himself back onto the ground, defeated. “ _Fucking_ Pandora.”

The Dust around him crinkled like paper being crumpled up and smoothed back out. Rhys was tugged somewhere, his mind struggling to adapt as the real, tangible him attempted to regain consciousness. 

 _“--back to Helios._ **_Yes_** , _both of them. Take Handsome Jack to the medical wing, and alert Dr. Levinson. Ask him where he wants Northcutt. Keep him restrained for the flight back--”_

Pain in his wrists, more abuse on an already abused body, and Rhys cried out. His mind, sensing the distress, threw him immediately back into the memory to avoid the pain. It had skipped ahead while he traversed the plains of which world he wanted to occupy.

The caravan was moving. Vaughn was draped dramatically across the couch, his arm thrown over his sunburnt face as though he would rather have welcomed death than his current pain. Sasha, who still eyed Rhys like he had daggers in his sleeves, was driving them steadily across the desert. 

Fiona sat in front of him, amused. 

“So you came all the way from Eden-5 to _study?_ ”

“I’m looking for information,” Rhys reiterated, trying to limit his sass. He was half convinced Fiona would yank the gifted bottle of water out of his hands if he started being too much of a dick. Inwardly, Rhys smiled. He’d been right in that assessment, at least. “I’m a… a Vault Hunter.”

Fiona’s face went from confused, to alarmed, to gleeful faster than Rhys could feel his own creeping embarrassment. Her and Sasha burst into hysterical laughter, pointing and tittering for so long that even Vaughn turned off his dramatics long enough to sit up and look annoyed. 

“Alright, so we’re not experts or anything,” Vaughn started, and Sasha let out a new wave of merciless snorts. 

Rhys glowered at the girls. “So we’re just starting out, so what? We’ve got more intel and power then any other Vault Hunter out here--”

“Power?” Fiona interrupted, flabbergasted. “What power? I found you in the dirt, nearly dead and missing a shoe. And half your jacket is burned off.”

“Oh, I liked that jacket,” Vaughn mumbled sadly. 

“Alright, listen. Back up,” Rhys said, taking another frantic pull of water in case the sisters decided to kick him out. “We have Atlas weaponry because we _work_ for Atlas. That’s where my intel comes from, and that’s where I got the gear.”

“Atlas is defunct,” Fiona argued. “They were driven out.”

 _“Here,_ yes,” Rhys explained, annoyed at the urgency in his own voice. “The Edens are our headquarters. We still thrive over there.” He paused, before adding, “We’re _huge_ over there.”

Sasha scoffed. “Right. And Atlas, they usually give admin clerks interplanetary missions?”

Rhys drew himself up with as much pride as a one shoe-d man could muster. “Actually, I’m the Director of Research, and run the robotics division. I have two Master's degrees, and a PhD. Who do you think made this badass arm?”

Fiona looked doubtful. “You could have gotten that anywhere. Could have _stolen_ it. And besides, why should I believe a cozy, corporate douchebag would come down to Pandora in search of intel instead of sending someone to do it for him?”

Rhys sighed, deciding that honestly was his best policy here. Smudging the truth worked in corporate emails and conference video calls, but Fiona was sharp, ready to corner him on his lies and humiliate him for it. Plus, he barely had the energy to sit upright, much less argue for the sake of his pride.

He shrugged lazily. “Because I’m a secretive asshole that has an inflated sense of self importance?”

Fiona looked surprised. A positive direction, at least.

“Also, we were pretty ignorant on how bad it is down here,” Vaughn supplied helpfully. “I mean, we knew people got shot at, but we didn’t realize how few people _don’t_ get shot at.”

Fiona watched Rhys carefully, and far more studiously than before. “You ever shoot a gun before, Rhys, Director of Research for Atlas? Because that’s a pretty pistol you have attached to you, but I didn’t find any dead bandits on your trail.”

Rhys shifted uncomfortably. “I go to the range a lot.”

“Oh, right!” Sasha began, sarcasm leaking from her words. “Because standing still in a safe, air conditioned environment shooting a stationary target is _such_ adequate training for the wasteland!”

“I got it!” Rhys snapped. “Look. Clearly, I’m out of my league. I get that. So just…” He paused, considering. He needed to keep this on the right track. He needed to coerce this conversation as easily as he steered the conference calls back home. Fiona had stolen from him, sure. But that hadn’t been all she did. He dropped his voice to something akin to respect, hoping to steer them into tamer waters. “Thank you for letting us tag along. Seriously. We’d be dead without you.”

Fiona’s eyes widened a little, but she covered it quickly. In an effort to avoid answering, she fished another water out of the cooler to replace Rhys's nearly drained one. Her animosity had dipped slightly, and with that came an inflated curiosity. All Rhys had to do was imply that he was in her debt to release some of the tension and gain her interest. He could still make this work.

“Alright. You’ve got a story, Atlas, and we’ve got a three-hour drive. So let’s hear it.”

Rhys sat up straighter, intending to start at the beginning, and opened his mouth to speak--

_“--know what caused it?”_

_“No. They went down there, the ground had a goddamn seizure or something, and we found them like this.”_

_“They’re burning up. Tell Helios to have a medical team at the docks for transport--”_

_“He’s trying to wake up--”_

_“--Here, this--”_

Another dose of pain, and his body jerked violently, sending him careening deeper through his mind in search of safety. Another skip. The caravan was now parked in the garage of a small mining community, and Sasha was underneath it, trying to repair a cracked axle. Fiona was arguing with her about paying an actual mechanic for parts, but from Sasha’s muffled cursing, the discussion wasn’t going well. 

“We’re close enough to town,” Fiona relayed to them, once she had returned to where the two boys were standing idly by and looking severely out of place. “You keep walking East, you can find a place called Tartarus. It’s Hyperion run, so you’ll have to lay low, but it’s better than this shithole.”

Rhys was uncomfortable with the idea for several reasons. One, because walking sounded like their worst decision since landing on Pandora, and that said something in itself, since nearly all their decisions since had ended with them getting shot at. Reason number two (and somehow, the more prominent one), was the feeling in Rhys's gut that told him leaving Sasha and Fiona was just bad business _._

The girls, of course, would make it on their own. His reluctance to leave them was less a concern for their safety, and more for his own. The networking mogul inside of him was placing marks on a metaphorical chalkboard, insisting he utilize the assets he’d been given. He knew a good deal when he saw it, and finding a good deal on Pandora that didn’t involve paying someone off to  _not_ stick a blade in between his ribs was almost unfathomable.

“What about you guys? Can you fix that on your own?”

Fiona looked uncomfortable, but blew him off easily. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Rhys raised his eyebrow. “That money you took from me should be more than enough to pay for the town mechanic.”

“True,” Fiona agreed reluctantly. “But we’re sort of...saving up. Trying to get the hell off of Pandora. We only spend money on what we can’t live without.”

 _Surely_ Pandora hated Rhys way too much for things to line up this easily. He eyed Vaughn, who only looked back at him curiously, slower on the uptake. But Rhys knew this was a decision he needed to make, even if Vaughn opposed the outcome. Trust was a character trait that had been strangled out of every Pandoran resident, but if Rhys couldn’t come by it naturally, he would buy it until it cultivated itself enough to pay him back. With interest. 

He thought about home, where the only weapons training the general public saw were those who enlisted to guard the relays. Even private security for the mega-corporations and stockpiled warehouses were few and far in between, since most of that was handled by machines (and the Eden’s weren’t exactly a breeding ground for the criminal elite). 

Rhys had big plans for the future. Plans he was wholly and pathetically unprepared for. He could command brilliantly in a boardroom, but a battlefield? No. This entire undertaking was foolish, and he’d been softened by cushioned chairs and lawful living, whereas Fiona and Sasha had been molded by a world that forced them to either adapt, or die. 

And Rhys had seen enough in three hours to know where to place his bets.

A rakk had started clawing at their windshield during the drive, and Sasha had disposed of it with her Maliwan SMG, managing to keep the steering wheel straight with nothing but her knees. He’d watched Fiona climb out the back of the _moving_ caravan to retrieve the dead, flapping thing from the hood, insisting that the leathery wings would help patch a hole in her jeans, and that the jerky she could make from the meat wasn’t too bad, as long as she could get most of the lead out. They had _amazed_ him, and envy had sat hard in the pit of his stomach. He needed mentors. He needed someone to teach him how to survive if he were ever going to get into those Vaults.

“What if I offered the two of you a job, off planet?”

Fiona, deeply startled, looked frantically from Rhys back to Sasha, as though her sister could somehow hear the conversation and would jump in to rescue her with that biting sass and furious denial of all things that came too easy. 

“A job?” She repeated, sounding stunned. “What, with _Atlas?_ ”

Rhys smiled. “Full benefits, hefty paycheck, and life on a planet that isn’t always trying to _eat_ you. You can’t tell me that isn’t appealing.”

Fiona shook her head, but her eyes were still wide. “No, I… We’re not made for that. We’re better off here -- we’d never be able to stuff ourselves in a suit and sit in a corner office. We couldn’t--”

“You’d work directly for me,” Rhys interrupted. “You know what I’ve come here to do, and you know I’m a garbage shot. I don’t know how to deal with these people, or how to protect myself, and I want you and your sister to train me. I’d bring you on under an official title -- advisor, maybe -- and you can keep doing all the things you’re good at, without the risk. I can get you out of here, Fiona. You and your sister.”

He held out his hand, and Fiona stared at it, all human mannerisms forgotten. “I don’t _know_ you,” she reasoned, the bitterness heavy in her voice. 

Rhys shrugged. “You know what’s here, though. Can’t be much else worse than that.” When she didn’t move, he pressed further. “Besides, it’s a two-day drive back to our ship, and another three days in space to get to Eden-5. Plenty of time for you to decide you’ve made a mistake… once you realize how much Vaughn talks.”

Vaughn snorted. “Well, at least she already knows how much you drool, Rhys.”

Fiona didn’t laugh, but her gaze hardened and she refused to look away from Rhys's face, as though breaking eye contact would give Rhys just enough time to get the jump on her. Tentatively, she took Rhys's outstretched hand in a hard grip. 

“You swear to me, Atlas. _Rhys._ Swear you’re not bullshitting me.”

Rhys used both hands to clasp hers solemnly, something he never did to any of his colleagues, too afraid of sending a mixed message he had no desire to follow up on. “I swear to you, Fiona. Now, _please,_ go give that mechanic my money. It's a long drive, and I'm pretty sure my jacket is still smoldering.”

The moment was ripped away carelessly, and Rhys was unceremoniously dropped back into reality. Something cold and hard was supporting him from underneath, but his brain was too hazy to grasp any usable conclusions from the information. He could hear the atmosphere outside of the shuttle, ripping along the edges until it gave way to nothing but space, uncontested and infinite. There were voices on either side of him, continuing their hushed discussion.

_“Jack’s muttering something. Can’t make it out.”_

_“--long until we dock?”_

_“Another twenty minutes, sir.”_

Another lurch, and he was jerked backwards in time. This one happened quicker, and the details were fuzzier, as though his memory were trying to pin down something particular, sparing only a glance at every turning point in Rhys's life. 

Sasha was smiling at him from her and Fiona’s new apartment, the blue sky of Eden-5 behind her as she took in the living room. It was still empty, but furniture had already been ordered. She hadn’t been able to believe she was getting her own bed, and Rhys thought her eyes would bulge right out of her head when he told her she could even paint the walls. 

Tears leaked down her cheeks as she smiled, whispering her thanks, soft enough that Rhys nearly missed it. 

The memory was gone, lost in the tunnel of colors and voices that Rhys was currently being rapidly digested into. Another picture swam into view as he was jerked, landing him hard in the midst of it, as though whatever was driving this was impatient with him for swimming about and not getting where they needed to _go._  

Rhys was running, his chest heaving, the weighted paintball rifle burning his shoulders as he raised it for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. He slid behind a barricade, trying to catch his breath as his lungs seized in protest. Hearing no movement, he took a chance and popped a look out the left side of his plaster wall. 

He barely caught sight Fiona’s hair as she moved back, hiding herself further into the makeshift urban course her and Sasha had devised while Rhys was busy running meetings, directing the workshops, and attending conferences. 

Her heard her laugh mockingly as his first three shots went wide. 

“Focus, Atlas! Let that recoil go _through_ you rather than into you! Don’t forget the basics!”

He shouted something back, but the memory was fading, swirling away to be replaced with something new. Fiona and Sasha were gone, and in their place stood Henderson, his face red and contorted with rage. 

“Marketing is _not_ your department, Northcutt!”

“They came to _me,_ ” Rhys growled back, his hands gripping his own forearms _hard_ in an effort to not physically respond to the outrage. “Everything here is outdated, and they wanted advice on a revamp, which, I won’t hesitate to point out, Sir,  _you_ approved...”

“A new color scheme!” Henderson shouted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A newer, catchier phrase, that’s all I meant! This… _direction_ you’re taking… I don’t approve.”

Rhys looked around at Henderson’s penthouse office, bloated with trophies and achievements won through the hardship of people like Rhys. Henderson was here because his grandfather had been here. And Henderson was _still_ here because no one with half a brain gave two shits about a trophy; they wanted to _create_ , and as long as Henderson sat in that chair, they didn’t have to take the burden of running a company upon their shoulders as well.

Rhys knew he was arrogant, but doing both didn’t sound so hard, really.

“You’re hindering us, and you know that,” Rhys said lowly. It sounded like a threat, and he found he didn’t mind too much. “You’re hindering Atlas’s growth, Henderson.”

Henderson opened his mouth to tell Rhys to get the _fuck_ out of his office, but the memory swept away almost as quickly as it came. They came and went at a nauseating pace now, snatches of conversations and environments that Rhys wasn’t able to lock down for any meaningful length of time. 

Atlas’s headquarters loomed in his sights, and Rhys's chest felt full and warm. Prideful. A girl he knew from Administration looked away from him shyly after a quick wave, and Rhys smirked, feeling more at ease in his fitted suit than he’d ever felt in his own skin. The sun warmed him from the inside out. 

Fast forwarded to the Vault of Epitaph, where they had nearly lost Axton due to crumbling ground and a nest of large centipede-like creatures. Sasha had cried honest-to-god tears, and Axton, still bleeding from where the four-inch pinchers had got him, held her for so long afterwards that even Fiona left to give them space.

Rewind. Back to Vaughn’s graduation party, where he announced to a throng of college friends and family that he’d be following Rhys to Atlas. Rhys was grinning, buzzed, overwhelmed with life--

Darkness cut in like a ribbon of ill-intent, and Rhys felt his body convulse as his mind was seared open. An ache in his jaw flared to life as he ground his teeth together, but it was a sensation of an alternate reality, one he couldn’t fully penetrate. He was being shredded at a molecular level, dismantled and re-purposed, thrown bodily into something that felt eternal and unavoidable.

_“--happening?”_

_“I don’t know. Hold them down--”_

A new memory, this one unfamiliar, but a clenching sense of dread pierced through the calm Rhys had been fortifying himself with. A laboratory began constructing itself before him, giant and vast with endless walls that rose high up into a dreary, cloudy sky, like a nightmare version of the thousands of labs Rhys had seen before. Computers and medical supplies lined those endless walls, leaving the middle open to amplify the focal feature in the room: a huge cylinder tube. 

Rhys walked towards it, compelled by something he couldn’t control, forced to relive a memory exactly how it happened. His body felt odd, askew in a way he couldn’t pinpoint, as though his depth had changed and his movements were unfamiliar. He felt larger, both in stature and in importance, and his heart ached in a way he’d never known was possible. Something in this room tore at him, drove him to an agony that was so much worse than physical pain. His heart was being torn out of him, ripped apart by clenching fingers that showed no mercy, blinding him with sorrow and something Rhys hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

Helplessness. A loss of control. 

He approached the chamber, his gut bottoming out as he made out a shape within. A tiny thing, curled up within itself as wires and tubes stuck under her skin pumped a purple substance from her frail body. She looked up, freckles and dark hair suddenly so visible and vibrant, and her bright blue eyes were rimmed red with tears as she held out her arms for Rhys, desperate for him, _pleading._

“Daddy!”

Raw, unaltered emotion tore through Rhys, and his body shot up off the stretcher as though he’d been electrocuted. His hands were tied in front of him, but he couldn’t focus on that, couldn’t think of anything else but that girl as his mind struggled to catch up to his body, thrust back into this distracting reality where lights burned down at him and everything was a shade too prominent for his addled brain. Doctors jumped away from him, away from both the stretchers, and Rhys was far too disoriented to realize that Jack had shot straight up, the same as him. 

They looked at each other wildly from across the shuttle, Rhys brain muddled in confusion while Jack’s eyes bore nothing but rage and anguish, his mouth twisted into a quivering snarl. The sound Jack made as he pulled out his pistol was inhuman, something animalistic and _hurt,_ and Rhys barely had time to open his mouth before three bullets had pinged off his shield, ricocheting back into the grating of the shuttle. 

The on-board doctor began yelling instructions through the chaos, and Wilhelm immediately wrestled the pistol from Jack’s hands. Jack swore wildly, trashing in a marvelous attempt to get to Rhys, to finish what the bullets couldn’t. Rhys only watched, drugged and terrified, before the doctor was dosing him again, and whatever had been injected into his arm was quick in making his eyes feel weighted and burdened. The doctor pushed him back onto his stretcher, and the last thing Rhys saw before passing back out was Jack fighting valiantly to get to him, his own body revolting against whatever sedatives he’d been given. 

Rhys was forced into a dreamless sleep, his fading thoughts focused on the child in the tank. 

On the memory that wasn’t his.

  


///

 

Rhys woke slowly, his mind seeking awareness far more eagerly than his body. The mere idea of opening his eyes was a tremendous undertaking, and he let the thought wither and die, sparing only the energy he needed to keep himself from slipping back under. 

His form felt heavy, like the gravity on less desirable planets, pulling him down into the sheets and pinning his muscles to the solid bed beneath him. His mind was a fog, dunked and drowned in a deep pool that had his awareness floating from one simple deduction to the next. 

He was in a bed. He was alive. He was drugged. He was _tired._

Eventually, through half-hearted self-coaxing over what felt like a period of hours, he opened his eyes to gaze up at a pristine laboratory ceiling. The air that surrounded him was cold, and as his skin began to goosebump, the pain in his head started to throb, as though unwilling to be overshadowed. His insides felt hungover and abused, and turning his head to the side enveloped him in a cacophony of hurt that traveled down his spine. 

As he braced himself through the onslaught of miserable reactionary pain, he spotted an IV bag with a tube and needle that trailed neatly down into the back of his hand. Saline. Unusual. Why hadn’t they given him a Rejuvenator? Anshin mass produced the things to a point of over-saturating the market, and slow-course healing medications were considered archaic. 

A secondary tube was dribbling an ugly brown substance into his IV, something unlabeled that Rhys couldn’t recognize. He squinted, trying to run the color through the database of substances he had catalogued in his head, but his internal, human functions were muggy and choppy, unable to be roused from slumber. 

With a slow, uncomfortable jolt, he realized his Eye was offline. A cold sense of dread washed over his weak body as he moved his head to the right, only to be met with a white blankets: his cybernetic arm was gone, leaving the attachments at his shoulder gaping and crude, like someone had reduced him to nothing more than the parts he was made of. 

With fear coursing through him, he tried to raise his organic arm to feel for his Eye. If they had ripped that out of him, he’d be lucky if the damage hadn’t severed most of his nervous system. 

His arm wouldn’t move. 

He swayed his head down, relying more on gravity than muscle strength, to find steel handcuffs securing his wrist to the bed frame. An odd mixture of relief and anxiety flooded his system; he wasn’t completely dissected, just incapacitated. His eyes traveled down his legs, where he could feel the telltale prick of metal digging into his ankles. 

“A precaution, Mr. Northcutt.”

The voice was a soothing baritone, and didn’t startle him nearly as much as it should have. Though Rhys supposed whatever was in that dripping brown substance was helping to settle him. He looked towards the foot of the bed to find a well groomed man in a white coat sitting in a borrowed office chair, gazing steadily at him. 

Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t feel his tongue, and his jaw was too heavy to work properly. Everything was weighted, dragging him further down into that fatigued abyss. 

“You won’t be able to speak much,” the man explained, reaching forward to tap Rhys's IV bag. “We needed you docile while we figured out what happened down in that Vault. Obviously, we’ve been drugging you, but I’m going to remove the push, and very soon you’re going to feel a lot of pain. Now, I’ve got a hypo here that I’m willing to drip into your IV -- a little old school, I know, but I don’t want you completely fit yet. My willingness to do this depends on your cooperation.” He looked at Rhys expectantly. “Blink twice for me if you understand.”

Rhys, slowly realizing the situation he was in, blinked his eyes once. He pushed through the overwhelming desire to keep them closed and succumb to sleep before doing it a second time. 

“Excellent,” the man replied, standing up to remove the offending brown bolus. “Feel free to rest. I’ll be back once the pain rouses you.”

Rhys caught sight of the name _Levinson_ on the man’s keycard before his body dragged him deeply back under and everything went black once again.

 

///

 

Gabe Levinson made his way to the medical wing, trying to ignore the way surgeons and biomedical engineers hastened out of his way like his proverbial red carpet might singe their feet. He knew he was rarely seen outside of his private lab, but that seemed to only incite rumors, rather than dampen them. 

And he had tried so hard to be relatable. A fool’s errand. Once Handsome Jack took a special interest in you, you were put in the china cabinet with the rest of his collectables, a glass case for everyone to stare and murmur and pass you by, like you were incredibly fragile, yet entirely immune. 

At least he was paid well. 

He had to pass through three separate security checks before getting to Jack’s hospital bed. A full retinal scan, weapons pat-down, ID verification, and security questions by armed guards who were stationed at every entrance of the wing, positioned like preliminary bosses before you could get to the endgame villain. 

This time when Gabe entered, Jack was awake, looking entirely put out. He had raised his bed up in a surprisingly effective attempt at his office throne. Gabe knew that if anyone else had tried it, they’d merely look like a kid in daddy’s shoes. 

But that was the thing about Jack. The authority wasn’t bought through assets. He carried it with him, whether in a golden office or half-doped on pain meds, and he was still feared enough for his underlings to mask it as respect.

“Gabe. What took you?”

Gabe took his seat next to Jack’s bed, already annoyed with the ping-ponging he’d be doing between the CEO and the COO during their recovery phase. 

“Had to wait for Northcutt to wake up. I’ve cut him off of the dopers, so he should be talking in a few hours, once they start to flush from his system.” He looked over to Jack’s charts, which were extensive and pristine. “How do you feel?”

“Ready to get out of this bed, that’s how I’m feeling. The hypo was all I needed, but the doc says he wants to keep me close for monitoring.”

“Well, that’s what you pay him for,” Gabe reasoned.

“I feel _fine,”_ Jack snapped. “I had to send Timmy out to the station with Blake just to shut up the rumor brigade, but I’m gettin’ real sick of the idea of not making my own showtimes. It looks bad, especially with Atlas here. I need to get out of this room.”

Gabe, after all these years, had learned Jack’s tells. He had learned what real anger meant, that simmering fire that seemed to radiate danger, that quiet before the storm. He had learned the snippy attitude of a bored genius, the cruel mockery of everything that didn’t line up with his suddenly avant garde standards. But impatience, anxiety, a snap in his words that shrouded the sound of his worry… that was something else. That only ever involved Angel. 

He moved the screen displaying Jack’s vitals to the side. Important though. Log it away. 

 

 _Full superficial recovery. Brain scans inconclusive. Possible neurological impairment, though movement and mental processing seem normal. Further testing to be administered._  

 

“What happened down there, Jack?”

“I told you,” Jack snapped, but Gabe held up his hand to interrupt him. 

“No, I know what’s going in the official report Wilhelm is currently making some poor Lieutenant scrawl out. I want you to tell me what _happened,_ and why you had me lock Angel down in the penthouse with half our security team.”

He could see the excuses painting themselves across Jack’s face, just waiting to be given life. The completely plausible lie the student could tell the teacher -- the one that would buy him just enough time to “redo” the project he’d never done in the first place. The sob story. 

But if Jack ever had a diary, it was locked away in Gabe’s memories, and he knew Jack was still fiddling with the key, always self conscious about needing the outlet in the first place. 

Finally, Jack scoffed, like he was doing _Gabe_ the favor of opening up. 

“There was a lot of pain, y’know. Like I had been put in a frickin' microwave, cooked from the inside out. But before that Vault threw us into the wall like ragdolls, there was… I dunno, _bliss_. Like Elpis. Like everything was going to be fine.”

“That aligns with our reports that Eridium produces vast amounts of dopamine in the subjects that can handle it,” Gabe reasoned, trying to alleviate some of Jack’s concerns. “It would explain why Lilith’s addiction runs as deeply as it does.”

“Not my point,” Jack muttered, shoving the comment to the side, and that’s when Gabe’s interest really grew. Jack would never pass on the opportunity to laugh at Lilith’s drug addiction. “It’s the shit that happened afterwards. I started reliving some memories on the transport back to Helios -- real dumb shit, like getting hired at Hyperion, strangling Tassiter, Angel making a pizza… also some not great stuff. Grandma. Angel’s mom.”

Gabe didn’t move. Angel’s mother was a volatile topic, which either led to Jack turning towards a bottle of bourbon or picking a fight on Pandora, neither of which ended well. 

“I figured it was just dreams, y’know. The Vault scrambling my brain. But I….” He stopped, running his hand down his face in agitation before shooting Gabe an accusatory glance. “Look, this is going to sound batshit nuts, okay?”

“I’m here to help, Jack,” Gabe replied, ensuring to keep his voice free of judgement. “Besides, I’ve learned not to doubt you.”

Jack stared at him, looking for the crack in dedication that Gabe didn’t even think he was capable of creating anymore. He owed Jack too much. He loved Angel too much.

“Alright," Jack relented. "I think I saw Eden-5 in one of the… dreams, or whatever.”

Gabe hesitated, unsure how to respond. “That’s not terribly strange. We’ve had lots of video reconnaissance of the Edens.”

“No,” Jack interrupted immediately, clearly frustrated. “I was there -- physically. Feet on the ground, staring up at Atlas headquarters like it _wasn’t_ the biggest blight on that frickin’ planet. A woman walked by and smiled like she knew me.” He ran a hand through his hair before sighing. “I think I was Northcutt.”

“So you dreamt you were Rhys? Back at Eden-5?”

“No, it’s… fuck. I can’t materialize that shit in my dreams, man. It was too solid. I could feel all of it, even the stupid muggy air from all those swamps. I _knew_ that woman, she was my employee, and I felt a million fucking things that I had no right to feel. But Rhys had felt them, in that moment. I think it--”

Jack stopped and grimaced, his hand moving to his temple as if his head pained him. Gabe’s mind was buzzing, trying to process what he was being told, and whether or not he should take it seriously, or convince Jack to sleep for another few hours.

“Jack. You realize that this just sounds like a dream, right? You manifested that place based on what you’ve seen, with an issue that’s been causing you stress. It can be incredibly easy to convince yourself that dreams--”

“--Gabe, shut the fuck up, and listen to what I’m sayin’, alright? Stop treating me like I’m a clueless nitwit that doesn’t understand the gravity of what just fucking happened.”

Gabe nodded quickly, and Jack glared at him angrily, as though he wasn’t sure Gabe was worthy of the rest of this conversation. Slowly, some of the annoyance died out on his face at Gabe’s patience, and he continued.  

“It happened again, after that. I was him in some Vault, watching that commando get torn into by creatures I’ve never seen in my fucking life, man. They had like, a thousand legs, and pinchers that were big enough to snap someone in half. I watched him take that hit, and it fucking _hurt_ . Everything inside of me hurt, more than a frickin’ dream ever could. Now, tell me why I would ever give a _fuck_ about some ex-Dahl bitch?”

Gabe shook his head, unknowing. Apprehensive. Jack’s words were buzzing in his head, and an explanation was coming into view like a silhouette through the fog, something he wasn’t ready to face head-on.

“I wasn’t me, not then,” Jack explained. “I was Atlas, and I was reliving his fucking memories like a movie filled with nothing but crummy B-footage. There’s no way I could make some of that shit up. It was too personal.”

He stopped, his head down, and Gabe knew they were on the cusp of Jack’s point. The reason for the fear in his voice. 

“And Angel?” Gabe asked delicately. “Where does she come into play here?”

Jack’s answer was soft. An alien thing in this alien environment, deprived of his throne and omnipresent security. 

“It went both ways, Gabe. I could feel the little bastard, walking my head, like this invading _presence_ that I couldn’t shake. I wanted to turn back, throw him out, shut everything down, but I had no control. He saw her. He saw my Angel, my tiny little girl, swallowed behind glass in that horrible fucking chamber.”

Gabe’s heart pulsed with something undefinable. A twinge of fear and uncertainty, a doubt for Angel’s safety despite how ridiculous Jack’s stories were. It tugged at him, like someone had lassoed his spine and jerked him backwards.

“Jack, what are you saying?”

But Jack only shook his head, and Gabe knew he’d never hear whatever words Jack was struggling with. Too many unknowns, too many variables. Gabe stood, mind burning possibilities into his skull. 

“I’ve already sent a team down to the Vault, but there’s no sign of the sphere you mentioned. They’re collecting data, and I’ll go through it when they’re done. This is… concerning. Northcutt likely knows more than he let on initially, but I’ll get that information from him. Please, stay here and rest, Jack. Listen to the doctors. We don’t know what’s happening, so let them do their jobs, okay?”

But Jack wasn’t listening to him. He was staring at his hands, as if they weren’t what he had been expecting to see. 

“ _Pinnacle of Eridian technology,_ ” he muttered. “What the fuck would that even _be?_ ”

Gabe didn’t answer, but Jack wasn’t looking for a response. He left Jack’s bed behind, his pace far quicker than usual as his mind tried to process something that was truly beyond his realm of consideration.

_Unbelievable._

But he was a man of intellect, after all, and had devoted a career to studying and cultivating the unbelievable. If this proved to be as real as Jack insisted, he needed to know how to deal with it. 

 

///

 

The redhead was pissed. 

Tim watched her snarl at every Hyperion employee that came within whispering distance. Which, crowded as they were on the transport, turned out to be _every_ Hyperion employee present. 

He wasn’t sure what had irritated her the most: farming them into the corner like disobedient children, cuffing them, or the broken ribs their commando had sustained during the initial struggle. The sight of her sister and the others being brought aboard to join the throng only seemed to encourage the woman's rage, as though assurance of Sasha’s wellbeing had sapped any desire to stay subdued. 

Wilhelm found this far more irritating than Tim did, blind to empathy as he was. 

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll knock your teeth out,” he warned in a growl, his arm whirring in a decisive threat as he raised it. 

Fiona looked ready to argue, but the sight of Wilhelm’s considerable modifications stayed her tongue. Axton, wincing, nudged her shoulder with his own in an attempt to get her to back off. 

“Tiny little Vault Hunter,” Wilhelm sneered at her, as though her reluctance to pick a fight with a man made mostly of steel and wires was cowardly. “A lot of bark, and no bite. Pandora eats girls like you, picks it’s teeth with them. You don’t like being in my shuttle, I can easily _toss you out._ ”

Wilhelm would do it, Tim knew. Whatever passed for humanity in Wil’s brain had been twisted and soured as a child. A child who failed at being a human, but thrived at being unbreakable. 

Tim pushed himself off of the wall of the transport. 

“Enough, Wil,” he chastised cheerily, acting up the Jack facade despite present company knowing otherwise. That secret was well kept, and only Jack’s personal security team, key members of medical, and this Atlas entourage knew about his doppleganger status. But it was a hard thing to turn off in public, especially with an audience. Especially when wanting to be Tim was so fucking _hard._ “Give them a break, buddy. They just had to watch their whole stupid plan crumble right before their eyes, and their COO is probably dead. Let the lady bark if she wants.”

He flashed Fiona a winning smile, which earned him a furious glare. 

Wil scoffed. “Stepping in to save the pathetic Pandorans again, Tim? That bleeding heart will get you killed.”

“Just following our illustrious leader’s orders,” Tim responded lightly. “ _Alive,_ wasn’t it? Don’t think the little miss would survive a drop from atmo.”

Wilhelm grumbled and returned to the front of the transport, barking at bored Hyperion personnel to get out of his way. Tim watched him leave before turning back to the remaining Atlas group. 

The brunette, Sasha, had her arm around the teenager, and together they were staring sullenly out of the transport’s window like they were watching the last fleeting moments of their life. Vaughn was near them, but his eyes were fixed on the floor, and he looked utterly defeated. The sight bothered Tim for several reasons, none of which he was comfortable reliving. Instead, he turned towards Fiona, who was glowering at him as though he had personally flung her into the seventh level of hell. He lowered his voice to a whisper.

“Listen to me, okay? I know you’re not thrilled about taking advice from the guy who slapped cuffs on you, but you _need_ to chill. Play nice, shut up, and this will pass much easier. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

Axton wheezed out a laugh, which resulted in an immediate grimace as the color drained from his face. Tim paused, listening to the sound of his breathing. It was too quick, too shallow. Axton’s face was paler than ever. 

“One of those ribs punctured your lung,” Tim reasoned immediately, and Fiona stiffened. Axton raised his eyes to meet hers, then shot a quick, guilty look at Sasha in the corner, and Tim realized Axton had no intention of making that ailment common knowledge. 

“Don’t tell Sasha,” he pleaded, just as Fiona whispered, “Ax, no, we’ll--”

But Tim was already pulling a syringe from his vest pocket. He shot a cautious look around, but most of the soldiers had mulled away, content in Tim’s ability to guard the broken pieces of the Atlas entourage. The remainder had pulled up their ECHO devices and were lost in their own concerns, or were trying to nap. 

Fiona glanced at the hypo in his hand. “What’re you--”

“Listen,” Tim interrupted, catching Axton’s eyes. “This isn’t a superficial wound, so it’s gonna hurt like hell. It’s gonna pop those ribs back into place and stitch up your lung, but it’ll hurt just as bad as it did down there. You gotta heal _quietly,_ you get me?”

Axton hesitated, as if waiting for the other shoe to fall, but nodded. He watched Tim closely, and the acquiescence in his composure told Tim that he knew he was being done a favor. 

Without hesitation, Tim jammed the hypo between Axton’s ribs. Axton grunted with the initial surprise, turning his head to find comfort on Fiona’s shoulder as the medication began to sort his body back to prime condition. The commando grit his teeth hard, but otherwise made no sound, and Tim slipped the empty hypo back into his pocket and moved away. 

Fiona didn’t thank him. But she did remain silent for the remainder of the shuttle ride up to Helios, staring resolutely at him as they ascended. As if he were an animal that had acted strangely. 

Tim took it as a win.

 

///

 

The man in the lab coat, Levinson, had warned him about the pain. But as usual, Rhys's arrogance had downplayed the concern. As his comeuppance, his entire body was pulsing with hurt by the time it roused him from a drug-induced slumber. 

His chest felt too heavy for his lungs to operate, and breathing was a struggle. His shirt had been removed, and Rhys could see the dark marks of bruises souring his bright blue tattoos, like someone had dumped out the remaining paint over a finished masterpiece. The wall he’d been slammed into had done him no favors. 

Scrapes littered his organic arm, injuries he hadn’t noticed before, and he felt a lurch of annoyance that the medical team hadn’t even bothered to clean the dried blood off from where it was flaking and cracked. He couldn’t linger on the agitation for long, though, as it made the already painful throbbing in his temples amplify into something akin to someone grinding a screwdriver into his neural port. 

He finally gave his environment a proper once over, squinting to avoid the harsh bright lights that brought another wave of pain-induced nausea. What he had initially mistaken as a hospital room proved to be a small lab, barred from its adjoining rooms with heavy fortified doors. Rhys could see the black rings of cameras in every corner, but they seemed defunct, and most of the equipment had been relocated, making his bed seem all the more isolated. 

But he wasn’t dead. Start with the small victories, Rhys. 

He tried to sit up, intent on removing the IV and finding a way out, but his body screamed in protest, locking his joints like the movement had summoned some self-preservation instinct that Rhys couldn’t override. He managed to find the button on the bedframe that would raise him up vertically, and figured that would have to do until he could get some of his strength back. 

He looked around for a Rejuvenator, but his room was empty of supplies. There were no monitoring systems, no computers, not even a dispensary. He groaned, realizing exactly why his Eye was offline, and wondering how Jack’s engineers had managed to create a radius dampener sophisticated enough to thwart his own safeguards. 

His mind drifted towards Fiona, towards Vaughn and the others, but he bit back the urge to dwell on their safety. He needed to focus on getting himself into a better bargaining position before he could even consider figuring out how to help them. 

As if on cue, the far door opened and the man in the coat appeared, glancing briefly at Rhys before securing the door behind him. He had no datapad in his hands (useless), but no weapons, either. Rhys recalled the promise of a healing hypo, and tried to figure out how to play the hand that he’d been dealt. 

“Good evening, Mr. Northcutt. My name is Dr. Gabe Levinson, and I’m going to be in charge of your care plan.”

Rhys eyed him as he stepped closer. His keycard claimed he belonged in Research and Development, Lab 18. His security clearance was color coded white, the same as Angel’s card, as well as her business ECHO handle. Rhys was being back into a corner by the upper division, though that was to be expected. 

He bit through the pain and asked, “Normally, care plans are run through physicians. What are your qualifications, Dr. Levinson?”

If Gabe was annoyed, he didn’t show it. He calmly took his previous seat at Rhys's bedside. “My qualifications include Handsome Jack’s trust, as well as harboring his intentions. So, for the sake of our sanity, let’s attempt to do this without the sarcasm, okay?”

Rhys's head pounded, but he tried not to let it show. “Is my team alive?”

“Yes. They’re on lockdown back in the executive suite and essentially clawing the walls, but they’re alive.”

Rhys felt his muscles unclench, and some of the tension drained from his body. It was more than he expected. It was more than he _hoped,_ even. There was no chance Jack would have allowed them to live, unless--

He paused, putting some pieces together. “And what happens to them once Jack is up and moving again? What happens to their safety when he gets a gun in his hand?”

Gabe rubbed his eyes, as if this wasn’t the first annoyance he’d had in an already long day. 

“I assure you that I cannot predict what Handsome Jack will and won’t do at any given time. Though, he _did_ give the order that your team be unharmed prior to apprehending you.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll make wonderful bargaining chips, yeah.”

Gabe settled him with a condescending look. “Do you want the hypo or not, Atlas?”

“Yes,” Rhys replied honestly, letting his head settle on the pillow behind him to help subdue the pain in his neck. “Lose the attitude and answer your questions. I got it.”

“Perfect,” Gabe answered, connecting the hypo where the brown bolus used to be. “Now, I want to talk about the Vault.”

Rhys remained silent, waiting for further prompting as he watched the bright red medicine dribble far too slowly down the tube towards his veins. 

When he didn’t answer, Gabe continued lightly. “Both of you experienced some kind of seizure.”

“I know,” Rhys interrupted. “Neuroscientist, remember? Any way you can make that hypo drip just a bit faster? I’m not really in a position to deny you answers, and the headache is pretty bad.”

Gabe glanced at the red stream, then back at Rhys. “No. Moving on. And, since you’re so well-versed on this particular type of trauma, I’m going to skip ahead and ask you what you knew, prior to going down there.”

Rhys closed his eyes as the first hints of Rejuvenator hit his blood stream, giving the fingers of his left arm a fiery chill as it began its repairs. 

“Not much,” he answered honestly. “We knew that we’d have to master some form of Eridian technology to open the thing, thanks to what we found on Epitah. There was never any mention of what we’d find inside other than it being top-tier technology. It was pretty heavily implied that it was the Eridian’s greatest achievement, even more important than their energy charges. Can I get some water?”

Gabe didn’t look at him. He was unfocused, staring into the wall, and Rhys couldn’t tell if he was making mental notes, or was just incredibly bored. He was a difficult man to read. “You’re fine with the IV,” Gabe mumbled. “Tell me what happened after you were thrown against the wall.”

“Other than unconsciousness?” Rhys asked, gratefully feeling the uncomfortable, needling medicine working its way up through his arm, stitching the skin back together where it had been scraped open. It was slower work than if he had done a straight injection, and left him itchy and annoyed. 

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to talk about those dreams he had to an associate of Handsome Jack. He wasn’t a fool, and he knew the Vault had done something to him. He could feel the tendrils of something foreign, serenely prodding at the back of his skull like they were searching for the doorway he was sure to have left open. If he were honest with himself, he was _terrified_ of what it meant, but faking it had always been a particular type of art, and one he had forced himself to master. 

What had he expected? Data, mainly. Instructions on how to tap into the innumerable Eridian artifacts that littered the galaxy like a bad oil spill. Renewable energy sources. A way to mine Eridium without hollowing the planets. Everything he had dreamed of was physical, a tangible accessory he could dangle on Atlas’s neck for the world to see. 

He needed to get his Eye back online. If anything could read what that Vault had done to him, it would be Eridian technology. 

But for that to happen, he needed to play his part. 

“Flashbacks,” he answered truthfully. “My past, mainly. Some highlights, some bad memories. I don’t know if I’d consider it my life flashing before my eyes, but--”

“And how did you feel during these flashbacks?”

Gabe was back to staring at him studiously, like he probably did to every other human rat he ran his tests on. Looking for the telltale nuances of dishonesty, the twitch of a finger that could mean he was withholding information. Rhys didn’t know. Interrogation wasn’t really his field. 

“About the same as I felt at the time,” he said, and the tingle began working it’s way up his neck. His busted face desperately needed the attention, even if his arms were still being slowly mended back to unblemished flesh. 

“Did you have any dreams?” Gabe asked quickly, and he didn’t even bother hiding the significance of the question. It was blunt and fast, just another wall for Rhys to be shoved against. 

“Dreams?” he asked, because he still hadn’t decided whether or not he wanted to lie. 

“Anything different than the flashbacks. Something new that you may have never seen. An invention of your mind, on par with a normal dream.”

Gabe was leading him, clearly. However he had deduced it, he knew that what Rhys had seen was more than a flashback, and driving Rhys towards doubt so soon after the incident was a good way to convince him that all he had seen was merely a manifestation of Rhys's own thoughts. Rhys had led his own clinical trials in the same fashion, only with more benevolent intentions. 

But he knew what he had seen, even if he couldn’t understand it. His body had not been his own, but everything was so familiar, like seeing a photo of himself that he hadn’t known was being taken. Like coming back to a childhood home. 

Like meeting a daughter after never knowing she lived. She was unknown to him, but suddenly, had been the most precious thing in his world. 

She was Jack’s daughter.

And while Rhys thrived on obtaining dangerous information, this one was out of his field. He could backstab among the best and brightest, and he could tear information from a long-dead civilization with little to no remorse. 

But the feeling in his chest at the sight of that girl had gutted him. The way Jack’s agony was _almost_ mistaken as anger when he fired desperately at Rhys on the transport -- all of that was too real. For once in his life, it was none of his business. 

For once, he didn’t _want_ the secrets of his opponents.

“What’s your title here, Doctor?” Rhys asked instead. 

“I head the Eridium Applications and Stabilization departments. Now would you please answer the question?”

“Do you have any neuropsychologists?” Rhys asked. 

Gabe very nearly scowled. “Do you need a safer space, Mr. Northcutt?”

“Technically, it’s _Doctor_ Northcutt, but I won’t fault you for it. And no. But if I’m going to say something ridiculous, I’d prefer it be heard by a party that wouldn’t immediately declare me insane.”

Gabe only studied him in response, lips pulled tight like he was the babysitter, and Rhys's parents had left no instructions on how to properly discipline him. 

“You’ve been around, I imagine,” Gabe began. “The Edens, obviously. Your headquarters are on Eden-5. Big, remarkable building, mostly solar and hydro powered. I imagine you’d have quite the sight, staring up at it as your employees mill around you. Bet you can feel the warmth from the swamps, just over the valley. Your days are longer there, right? Eighteen hours of sunshine, reflecting off that sleek, chrome landmark.”

Rhys's admittedly miserable survival instincts were trying to flare a warning at him, clicking uselessly like a gas stove that refused to spark. Yes, he’d seen that sight before. And so recently. 

“And other planets, I’m sure,” Gabe continued. “I’ve heard some have these horrible creatures. Especially Epitah, terrible things there. Too many legs, and pinchers big enough to slice a man in half. It would be an awful sight, watching one of those monsters tear into someone. Even worse if it were a dedicated associate, a _friend_. Someone who would do anything to ensure your safety.”

Rhys mental process was following along to the picture like a child pointing out the words in a story. He could see Axton, fighting off those damn things even as blood began to blossom across his shirt. The truth was being presented to him, but he couldn’t stomach it. His face itched as it was slowly restored by that luminescent red liquid, but Rhys had since stopped feeling it. 

Two very distinct memories that Rhys had relieved on the transport back. Undeniable in their details. The only way Gabe could known was if he had been _told,_ confined in by someone who had seen the same things, exactly the way they had played out. Someone who had also been subjected to the Vault's technology.His organic eye began to sting as a torrent of emotional upset tore through him, hardly daring to believe the inevitability of what Gabe was so subtly implying. 

Jack had tumbled through those memories, right alongside him. Jack had seen all of it. And Rhys had seen--

“There,” Gabe mumbled, watching as Rhys trembled through his own shock. “Now that we’re on the same page, I’m going to ask you again. This time, a little more specifically: did you see Angel, Rhys?”

_Angel._

The name burned through him like a livewire. The dark hair, the bright blue eyes. The swagger that so eerily resembled Jack’s. She was so _young,_ he had thought. Of course Jack would keep her close. She wasn’t just good at her job, she was _precious_ to him. The resemblance was so clear now. 

He could see her again, encased in glass, her tiny hands begging for his touch, his comfort. For her father’s embrace. 

_“Daddy!”_

“Yes,” Rhys croaked, and his understanding of the world began to fall apart around him. “Yes, I did.”

 


	6. fall from the sky just to learn how to fly

_ // _

_ We gotta work it out cause I ain't turning around _

_ The same person I was when the curtains were down _

_ I'm not perfect, what now? Huh, what now? _

_ /// _

 

 

“He  _ has  _ to be alive,” Vaughn said aloud. 

The suite remained quiet, much as it had the last time he’d spoken. He waited a few more moments, his face stubbornly staring at the door, as if reassurance would waltz in like an old friend. 

“If they had killed him, they’d have killed  _ us  _ too,” he asserted.

Fiona groaned from under her hat, which had been ineffective at drowning out Vaughn’s voice. “Enough, Vaughn. We don’t know anything, and we probably  _ won’t  _ know anything until they decide to take us out of lockdown. Now please, shut up.”

Vaughn wrung his hands together nervously, casting a glance around the room. Gaige was seated next to the window, her head in her hand as she stared out into space. She hadn’t said much since Hyperion had taken control of the situation, and her silence frayed Vaughn’s nerves as easily as Rhys’s unknown whereabouts. 

He opened his mouth, glanced towards Fiona’s undignified sprawl across the couch, and shut it again. 

Axton and Sasha were performing rounds on the rooms, looking for any hint of a conduit or panel that might give them access to overriding the lockdown. It was unlikely, but it had been over twelve hours since they’d been forcibly returned to their room, and the desperation was growing. 

“Look, I’m just saying--” Vaughn began, and Fiona tore her hat away from her face again, furious. 

But the impending argument was cut short when the entry door beeped at them, and Gaige scrambled to her feet and ran past them, a blur of color. 

“Rhys!!”

Vaughn stood, hardly daring to believe. But it was Rhys’s arm that wrapped around Gaige’s shoulders. It was Rhys’s face that grimaced as she pressed too hard into his chest. It was his voice that rang out, clear enough in their stunned silence to be heard across the expanse of the room. 

“Hey guys. Everyone okay?”

Fiona gaped at him as Sasha and Axton’s feet were heard in the hallway. _“_ _ Rhys?  _ What--”

“Holy shit,  _ Rhys-- _ ” Sasha appeared in the doorframe, her hand clenched over her chest. Axton grinned from behind her. 

“Hey buddy. Where the fuck you been?”

Vaughn stumbled over, pulling Rhys and Gaige (who hadn’t yet let go) into him. Rhys relaxed minutely, but there was still tension in his body, like he couldn’t fully embrace their homecoming. Like he was just stopping by to deliver bad news. 

“Could you ease up on the pressure a bit? I’m still, uh, healing. Thanks.”

Gaige and Vaughn pulled away, and Rhys tried to smile at them, but it was worn and cracking. Nothing like the fake, plastic smiles he could schmooze colleagues with at conferences, and even less like the warm, honest one that Vaughn had known since childhood. This one had no purpose behind it except to reassure his doubtful friends. 

And Rhys never been very good at that. It’s why he had Vaughn for numbers; Axton for protection; Fiona for skepticism; Sasha for aggression. He routinely surrounded himself with people who could cover his flaws and save him from his own shortcomings. But none of them were willing to rescue him from this, not when they had so many questions. 

“Rhys?” Sasha asked cautiously, once she had noticed that the light behind Rhys organic eye was dull. A wattage too dim. “What’s happened?”

“Why is your shirt wet?” Vaughn asked, pulling away and examining his hand. It came away red. “Shit, Rhys, is that  _ blood?  _ Oh god, where the fuck is your  _ arm?” _

Rhys looked at the floor and tried to take a breath, but it turned into a shuddering laugh. “It’s, um. Nothing major. But there was an issue. There…  _ is  _ an issue.”

 

///

 

It was major. And the issue in question was less of a minor inconvenience and more of a life-altering technological marvel. 

At least, that’s what Gabe was trying to sell. And Jack wasn’t sure if he wanted to buy. 

“We  _ what?!” _

“Now, calm down, Jack,” Gabe tried, but Jack was already ripping off his monitors and sliding himself from the bed. “I know this is difficult to hear, but it’s also inconclusive. I need to run some tests, get Eridium involved--”

“No, no more tests,” Jack growled, reaching to pull on the pair of jeans that had been freshly delivered to him. Trust his employees to  _ expect  _ him to pull a stunt like this and be prepared for it. “Where’s my fucking shirt--? Alright. Where’s he being held?”

“Jack, please, listen to me--”

“I  _ am  _ listening, Gabe, you see me? I’m listening pretty goddamn hard buddy. And what I  _ heard  _ makes me convinced that I need to go over to the lab and shoot Atlas in his frickin’ face.”

He pulled his shirt over his head, still feeling a ping of pain at his temples, and padded barefoot over to the door. 

“I’m not sure how deep this connection runs,” Gabe was rushing to explain, a tiny little asteroid of logic and reason that couldn’t quite find a connection in Jack’s gravity. He kept his distance, wary of Jack’s indiscriminate need to  _ react  _ whenever situations got out of his control. “I know you’re worried, but we shouldn’t be making rash decisions.”

Jack was already through the door, somewhat pleased to see his guards jump to attention despite his own disheveled appearance. He could still command this room. He could command this whole goddamn space station in nothing but denim and rage, if that’s what it came down to. He grabbed one of the guard’s pistols that had been strapped down on his thigh and pulled it out, checking the mag. A Vision. That would do. He set off towards the lab. 

Gabe prattled all the way there. It was professional prattling, of course, but anything that didn’t immediately snag Handsome Jack’s interest usually turned to white noise. 

Instead, he focused on Angel. How much had Rhys seen? How much could he deduce? The only company as familiar with Eridium applications as Hyperion were Atlas, and they mastered their practices long ago. Did Rhys know what he saw? How much would a secret like that sell for? 

Who would put aside the fact that Angel was a  _ child  _ and come looking for her, intent on studying her like she was still in that goddamn container?

Jack frowned. Most  _ anyone,  _ it seemed.

By the time he reached the offshoot of Gabe’s lab where Rhys was being bunkered down, his anger had grown again, bolstered by his own shock. The panel scanned his face and asked for an override password. Jack punched it in, his fingers twitching on the grip of his pistol. 

The door hissed open, and Rhys stood there, waiting for him. 

He was still wearing his slacks, coated in dirt and debris that white bedsheets hadn’t fully rubbed off. His chest was bare save for the faint purple and yellow of healing bruises that made him look as though he’d been dumped through the grinder. The IV was gone, watered down Rejuvenator entirely dispensed. 

They stared at each other. Rhys’s eyes were heavy with the lingering effects of the drugs, but his expression was muted. Swallowed by despair. Whatever Rhys had been expecting from that Vault, it wasn’t this, and in that, at least, Jack could relate.

“Who have you told?” Jack spat, raising his arm to point the barrel of his gun at Rhys’ head like second nature. Like he was a puppet, and his strings were pulled exactly when they were supposed to be. 

Rhys glanced around to the bare walls, as though there was a third party there in his locked room that Rhys had completely ignored. Jack growled at his own stupid question. 

_ Focus.  _

“You saw her?” Jack asked, and Rhys tensed. He nodded slowly, like he was still wrapping his head around that particular piece of info, and he wasn’t pleased about it. Like he hadn’t just been _gifted_ high-quality blackmail on the most powerful man in the galaxy. 

“What happened to her?” Rhys asked, but his voice was hoarse, caught in a tangle of barbs. It sounded unwelcomingly like  _ concern,  _ and Jack didn’t know what to make of it. 

“She’s  _ fine,” _   he bit. “But you, on the other hand, are dead.”

“Wait!” Gabe stepped between them, his hands raised, and Jack’s chest throbbed for a moment with betrayal. But Gabe turned his pleading expression towards him, earnest, but loyal. “Handsome Jack, listen to me. Just, before you shoot him, let me test something, okay?”

Jack hadn’t hand selected Levinson for his nurturing nature -- that had been a bonus, at least for Angel. No, Jack chose him for loyalty, for his intuition. For his unprecedented Eridium applications. He chose him because there wasn’t a single person on this fucking station that could outsmart Gabe, and Jack needed that intellect on his side, instead of used against him. 

And now, he needed to trust what he had cultivated. 

“Thirty seconds,” Jack snarled, and lowered his pistol. “Then I blow his brains against the wall.”

Rhys visibly shuddered, but stayed quiet. Gabe nodded quickly, and pulled a knife from his boot, his eyes scanning Rhys cautiously. 

“I’m going to cut you,” he explained carefully. “It’s not going to be deep, but I need to make it hurt. Be still, okay?”

Rhys nodded, and looked at Jack, as though he were still the most dangerous person in the room, even as Gabe pressed the blade against the tender skin of his organic arm. Gabe pushed it down firmly, until the skin tented backwards and blood began to form a rivlet that trailed down Rhys’s arm. The blade moved down slowly and with precision, and Rhys flinched, biting his lip as his eye began to water. 

Jack opened his mouth to mock Rhys’s pain, but his words died in his throat. His stomach churned and began to revolt, and his eyesight blurred, like it had been knocked off frequency. The inside of his skin felt like chalkboard, and something was running its fingernails down it, sending Jack’s body into unbearable turmoil. He watched Gabe cut into Rhys's arm, watched the pain blossom across Rhys’s face, and felt the phantom sensation deep in his own skin. Everything screamed at him to end it before his body was torn asunder, before those phantom claws tore into him, ripped his ribcage open one rib at a time, deep-fried his mind until everything was  _ pain-- _

“STOP!  _ Stop  _ \-- holy fuck, stop!” 

Gabe removed his blade, and Rhys pulled away. Instantly, the god-awful feeling under Jack’s skin faded into a dull ache, leaving him buzzed and worn, like he’d worked through a hangover instead of sleeping it off. 

The tension in the room was heavy, palpable, and if Jack wasn’t convinced he was delusional, he would have  _ sworn  _ he could sense Rhys’s outline in it just a little more clearly than Gabe’s. 

“Levinson,” he finally breathed out, avoiding Rhys’s eyes like they might burn straight through him. “Explain. Now.”

Gabe cleared his throat, looking between the two of them as if terrified they would turn rabid. “I… have to confirm a lot of things before I can--”

“Then give me your best fucking guess, Gabe!” Jack snapped, staring Gabe down simply to avoid looking anywhere more dangerous. “You want to tell me why you sliced Northcutt open, and I…”

His anger was sapped as he thought about the pain, torn from him by his own confusion as easily as a hurricane could rip roots from the ground. What had he been about to say? That he needed the hurt to stop? Not for Rhys sake, but his own? He’d been so close to killing Rhys so many times in the past 24 hours, and now, he was the one who stopped it from happening? 

Rhys was flexing his arm carefully to try and staunch the flow, the best he could do in the absence of a secondary hand. His eye was distant and unfocused, and with the ECHOeye being shut down, he looked like a vacant home, lights off and abandoned. 

“From what we know of Eridians,” Gabe began, and Jack could see his hands shaking slightly. Uncharted territory. “They operated universally. Militarized. There were no factions, no distinctions among their race, and all the lore we’ve found has referred to them as a unity rather than individuals. I believe they might have had a… hive mind, of sorts. A shared consciousness.”

Rhys huffed out a breath of laughter that sounded half-crazed. The first splintering of someone’s resolve. The ground at Jack’s feet seemed to swirl. 

“And the pain?”

“Survival strategy, I imagine. Avoiding threats.”

Jack fingered the pistol at his side. It felt heavier. He felt out of place, lopsided, desensitized and disassociated. Shock. “What happens if I kill him?”

Goosebumps prickled Rhys skin. Jack could see it, even from a distance. He shouldn’t care. He  _ didn’t  _ care.

Gabe began fishing around in the pockets of his coat. “Well, with a shared consciousness, when one of the units dies, the remaining subjects lose whatever intelligence that individual was supplying to the group…” He pulled out a Rejuvenator hypo. “But, this is a different case. Usually there are thousands of individuals. A single loss wouldn’t mean much.”

“But?” Jack asked. He watched as Gabe motioned for Rhys arm, and Atlas gave it up with no hesitation, wincing as it moved. The blood that dribbled to the ground fractured their fragile environment, and Jack tried to summon the energy to be angry when Gabe jammed the hypo into Rhys’s arm. 

“But,” Gabe continued, “It’s just the two of you. That loss would be...traumatic. Jack, just based off of what I’ve seen, you would very likely end up in a coma due to the system shock, or you’d turn feral from the separation. But that's just a guess. I... would have to conduct tests. I’ve never seen something like this incorporated into a human mind.”

A pause. The room tried to digest the information, but the atmosphere grew impossibly thicker, and Jack felt like he would choke on it. Helplessness was not his strong suit. Being told what he could and couldn’t do was the tipping point of every life changing decision he’d ever confronted. 

But he didn’t like his odds here. Not with Angel so tangled in this bullshit web. 

Gabe broke through the fog, fixing Jack with a stare that said a little too much. 

“You can’t kill him, Jack. Not yet.”

His pistol was heavy still, the weight clawing at him like a drug, and he was desperate for a fix. This man, this stupid fucking  _ liar  _ that stood in front of him, knew about his Angel, about the daughter Jack legally never had. He knew. The fucking Crimson Raiders knew, but they were half insane. The only threat they posed was their inanity, their unpredictability. But Rhys had an empire. Millions of civilized people who hung off his word like he spoke the damned gospel. 

Gabe was right. He always was. Rhys  _ was  _ dangerous, for all the reasons Jack hadn’t expected to entertain. 

And he was supposed to let the little bastard live?

Finally, he looked up at Rhys. There was a wince as the hypo did its job, but the kid’s face remained impassive, likely working through his options. 

“Listen to me,” Jack started, his voice low, and Rhys’s eyes snapped to him like Jack had cut the wire holding them back. “I don’t care if it kills me. If you breathe a word about Angel to anyone that would try and hurt her, to exploit her--”

Rhys face crumpled. 

“Jack,” he interrupted, and his voice was soft. Like they’d known each other for a lifetime. “That’s a child. That’s your  _ daughter. ” _

He didn’t say anything else, and Jack’s fingers shook. He hated that he didn’t need to  _ hear  _ anything else. 

“Your associates are back in the suite,” he told the room sternly, averting his eyes. “Go there, and don’t leave until someone comes to fetch you. Don’t be stupid.”

The threat of monitoring their communications was left hanging between them, but as Jack studied Rhys's face, he found the urge to speak those warnings withering and dying. Atlas looked miserable, even more so once Jack had implied that Rhys might be willing to sell Angel’s security to the highest bidder. 

“Thank you,” Rhys mumbled, and he didn’t spare Jack or Gabe a second glance as he grabbed his shirt from the table and disappeared beyond the laboratory door. 

Gabe waited until they could no longer hear Rhys's footsteps in the hallway. “Was it wise to let him wander around like that with no security? R&D is just down the--”

“Atlas has far better tech than we do,” Jack admitted, surprising himself with how desolate he sounded. “He’s not going to cause trouble. I’m going to… go see Angel. She needs to know. Let the suite guards know Atlas can enter unharmed, but they’re to remain there until...”

He trailed off, left the sentence empty and open. Gabe nodded, and let the silence stretch. 

 

///

 

Rhys didn’t normally dream. He’d already  _ lived  _ his dreams, caught them by the hand and coerced them into reality, much as Handsome Jack had wrapped his hand around the throats of his own aspirations and forced them into being. Different climbs up the same ladder. 

But at his point in life now, he was far too tired to dream. Back at Atlas headquarters, reports and legal paperwork kept him up late into the night, while conference calls and department visitations got him up early in the mornings. When he was finally back in his penthouse, mingling with the stars only ninety stories above the lobby breakfast bistro that would supply him his morning coffee in six hours, he would shut down. His body would turn off, grateful to not think. 

So when he shot off the bed in Hyperion’s executive suite, his cold, damp hands clutching blankets in a fist, he was surprised. He didn’t know how to deal with a nightmare, and his bed was empty. No nightly companions. So, he did what he always did when he had a problem he didn’t know how to fix. 

He analyzed. He revisited. He resolved to tear the damn thing down until he could pick it apart and understand it. He closed his eyes and tried to remember, ever conscious of the details that were slipping through his fingers like a fine sand. 

He remembered Elpis as Jack did. The strange sensation of low gravity, of being perpetually terrified the moon would grow disinterested in the little hold it had on you, and you would simply drift away into the vast horror of space. A rejected plaything. 

Rhys had never known what happened on Elpis, not really. He’d heard of a Vault being opened, almost seven years ago. Stories said that a Dahl Colonel had exhausted all sense of humanity and raided the Hyperion base, lost in a self-proclaimed mission to protect the Vault. Her forces had killed hundreds of innocent workers on Helios, as well as a staggering amount of civilians on Elpis. Jack and his Vault Hunters had retaken the station and ended her terror. They had been heroes. 

It had seemed so otherworldly, then. Rhys had been only twenty-one at the time, just obtaining his rightful place of status amongst Atlas personnel. The only half-invested news reports had started sounding like fairy tales, embellished for media to entertain the otherwise predictable lives of Eden residents. But Rhys was enraptured, and had scoured the ECHOnet for whatever faint reports he could find. 

Pandora was a lawless, terrifying outland world, on the borderlands of the entire system. The man with the least bullet holes in him ruled. It was archaic, and Rhys consumed it like a man obsessed. Propaganda posters showed a broad figure, half-concealed by the shadows of a Loader, holding a Hyperion SMG with all the pride of a newborn baby. Like he was expecting strangers to coo and kiss. He was an arrogant conqueror, a genius, a man unafraid to take what he wanted. Rhys had printed out those adverts and hung them by his desk at home, motivational posters that he tried to pretend weren’t as ironic as he told his friends.

Oh, how he had wanted to be like  _ Handsome Jack.  _

But the Jack in his dream had been very different than the media portrayed. This Jack’s heart was pounding in his chest, pumping blood frantically through his veins, and his legs were on fire as he ran. Part of his jacket was singed where the Sentinel's acid had splashed up from the floor. This Jack was terrified, half-buried in the middle of a battle that would very likely kill him. 

Rhys -- no, Jack -- looked up, and he could see Nisha high above him, pistols in both hands as she bore down upon the monster. There was a strange pull behind his ribs, but no time to dwell on that now. Tim wasn’t far off, filling the arena with electricity as he single-handedly tore down the Sentinel’s shields. Wilhelm was lobbing sticky grenades and shouting, a grin on his face. Now and then he’d get a glimpse of Athena’s shield, slicing whatever critical part of the creature she could reach. 

It was chaos. It wasn’t like the adverts and motivational posters, which seemed so choreographed, so detailed. Here, everything was a blur. Time moved too quickly. Decisions weren’t being made with the precision or effectiveness the situation demanded. Shields flickered, and hypos were jammed under skin with alarming frequency. There was so much  _ noise. _

Rhys opened his eyes and put his head back on the pillow. That wasn’t the part he wanted to relive, but the memories weren’t available at his discretion. They weren’t something he could open and sift through, like a bored child nosing their way through daddy’s office. They came to him as quickly as they had on the transport, and were jerked away with the same indifference. He was caught in the middle of a storm at sea, and could do nothing but let the waves pull him under, smash him against the rocks, and, if they were merciful, let him get a few lungfuls of air between the assaults. 

He wondered if Jack was suffering too, and rolled over in bed. 

His team hadn’t taken the news well. Silence reigned initially, followed quickly by shock, disbelief, and fear. He told them of Angel, because he had to. He told them he was scared, because he wanted to. Fiona’s eyes had stayed wide and alarmed, and Gaige had hid her fascination badly, pulling out her datapad to begin running numbers. 

Eventually, Fiona pulled a bottle of amber liquid from the bar and set out a plate of sweet bread, cheeses, and fruits, and they drank away the uncertainty of their future. Axton ran soothing circles down Sasha’s back once she was drunk enough to not fight about the display of affection, and gave Rhys a significant look. 

_ We need to get them out.  _

Rhys, numb from the alcohol and shock, more terrified of his own mind  _ now  _ than when he’d been getting cybernetics installed, had only nodded. 

Thinking of Fiona’s face, of the worry in her expression, Rhys tried to drift back off to sleep. Her eyes swam before him, the shadows of his fading inebriation doing strange things to their colors. They turned blue, then green. She began to laugh, and the world faded into purple, a hazy background that Rhys swam listlessly through until Fiona’s face escaped him, as if caught in a breeze. Then, Rhys began to  _ see  _ rather than observe. The Vault of Elpis was before him, its crystal chamber encasing him. Knowledge was being beamed into him from the artifact that appeared once the Sentinel died, and Rhys’s--Jack’s-- heart thrummed in elation at what had become so clear, so undeniably apparent as the solution to all his problems. 

The Eridium. He could  _ use  _ it.  

But there was a shift in time. A familiar voice, feminine and cold, like a demon come for penance. A small ping of curiosity in the recesses of his mind tried to swim through the information overload to identify it, but he couldn’t force cognizance before he was abruptly and viciously knocked backwards.

Fiery, engulfing  _ pain  _ enveloped him as Lilith phasewalked her way into the chamber and blasted the artifact deep into his face. There was no warning to prepare him for the agony, no viable excuse for her to sink low enough to torture him like this, as if she hadn’t taken everything from him already, the absolute  _ cunt.  _ He screamed as the edges cut into his skin, sizzling his face as it burned through him, cauterizing the wound with enough heat to flare fire across his cheeks. He lost his vision as one of his eyes burned white, swelling shut to avoid more damage. 

The sounds he made were inhuman. God, how he screamed. It was animalistic even to his own ears, and gave his throat a matching burn against the destruction of his face. Time shifted again, and he knew, deep in the consciousness that wasn’t currently burdened by agony, that Lilith had fled. The arrogant, back-stabbing  _ bitch.  _ The  _ coward. _

The artifact faded from existence as it melted across Jack’s face, like he had absorbed it deep under his skin, to take the pain with him for eternity. But its job was done, and Jack, despite what it had cost him, had seen all he needed to. He understood  _ everything _ . He could save Angel, but Lilith… oh, Lilith would die. Blinded by betrayal and agony, he knew he was screaming that vow to his hired muscle. He knew he was making a spectacle in front of the people he paid to be loyal, but he was far past the point of caring, not when his body and mind wailed at him in tandem, begging him to make it stop, if only to make it  _ begin. _

He was a new man now, burning in his own hatred at the treachery of others. And this new man was tired of trying to earn acceptance from the filthy vagabonds that roamed Pandora, conniving and scheming and festering in their own sins. He owed  _ nothing  _ to them, he owed nothing to anybody, and if they couldn’t be brought to understand through sympathy, through compassion, then he would cleanse them with fear. His Vault Hunters would follow him, or they would no longer be his concern. 

But first, he needed to find Levinson. He needed to access the damage. 

He needed a new identity.

The memory faded out. Rhys was left with nothing but the blank canvas of his own thoughts, like an empty document he was expected to fill with his own words, his own conclusions. Fear and sorrow rested heavy in his gut, and his perception of Jack was slowly expanding, adding dimensions to a flat figure that Rhys used to swear he could paint with a blanket identity. He had known Jack was dangerous, a ruthless figurehead for a felonious company. 

But he hadn’t imagined he’d be human, either.

Eventually, Rhys fell back asleep, his plan for ensuring their safety as bleak and empty as the rest of him felt. 

 

///

 

Angel was confident in herself. She knew it was a marvel how well adjusted she turned out to be (though she insisted her room have no windows. She wasn’t a huge fan of watching the world go by through the barrier of glass. Her dad had no problems with this arrangement, since it kept her further concealed from the world’s watchful eyes), and had spent a significant amount of time studying herself and looking for signs of permanent emotional damage. 

After considerable self-searching, she concluded that some of her self-assured nature had come from her inability to connect to people properly. She had no desire to impress them, much like her father - but where he came across as arrogant, she was adoringly deemed “professional”. She was, by definition, the new Hyperion standard, balancing out Jack’s aggression with a relatively calm demeanor, a typical  _ good cop, bad cop _ partnership. 

But her hands still shook when she knocked on the door of the executive suite. 

Jack, scoffing at her etiquette, simply opened the door and barged in, instructing the guards to keep the lockdown inactive until they came back out. 

The room, a bluster of activity when they entered, immediately fell still, as though someone had hit pause on the remote of their world. Six faces were frozen as they stared at the CEO and PA pair, their muscles tensed like they weren’t yet sure whether to run from the predator or hide in plain sight. 

Finally, the weird teenager that sat cross-legged on the floor broke the silence and breathed out a strange, awe-struck giggle. 

“ _ Angel! _ ”

Rhys, who was crowded over a soldering tool next to her, winced. There was no mistaking the relief in Gaige’s voice, the very obvious tell, and Jack turned a furious glare onto him. 

“You  _ told  _ them?! One frickin’ thing I asked you to do! It’s like you’re  _ begging  _ me to snap your neck, Atlas--!”

Jack jerked forward, but Rhys narrowed his eyes, quickly standing up to put Gaige behind him. As though he could still be intimidating despite his casual clothing and missing limb. 

“You told me not to tell anyone that could potentially hurt her. No one here is going to do that.”

“How could you  _ possibly  _ know that? All it takes it the right price--”

“Well how did you want me to explain this situation, Jack?” Rhys argued back, throwing his hands up in immature defiance. “ _ Oh, he was going to kill all of us, but he dug deep, deep into his cold, bastard hea rt--” _

Angel cleared her throat loudly. Or, what she hoped passed for loud. She caught Fiona’s eye from across the room, where the ex-con had been standing on a chair in an attempt to test the durability of the ceiling tiles. Fiona’s gaze trailed down to the winged bracelet on Angel’s arm, and she might have smiled. Or, at least frowned a little less. Angel looked away before sentiment could take over. 

“We came here to explain what you saw, Rhys,” Angel explained quietly. 

“We?” Jack spit viciously, and she rolled her eyes. 

_“ _I_ _came to explain what you saw. My dad disagrees with this decision, but considering I’m the subject of the issue that’s keeping the two of you from going full ‘pistols at high noon’ on each other…”

She looked hopefully between her dad and Rhys, but both of them stared at her blandly. Neither one of them wanted to admit any reluctance to kill the other. Fine. Wasn’t  _ she  _ supposed to be the immature one?

“I’m just going to breeze through this really quickly, since we’re on a schedule. There was an incident when I was young,” she explained. “My--”

Jack cleared his throat pointedly, his face set and stern. He wouldn’t look at her. She fumbled, and began again. 

“My… Well, basically, I was exposed to a lot of Eridium. Too much. Part of my genetic code was rewritten, and my body began to produce it on it’s own after the exposure, not unlike a catalyst. But the radiation output was killing me. Gabe -- I mean, Dr. Levinson, found a way to siphon it out, but the process was slow, and delicate. And it, uh, made getting close to me lethal. The glass you saw me through was the barrier that kept the team caring for me alive.”

Angel glanced up, and the sight that greeted her was what she had been expecting, but it still hurt. Sasha’s mouth had parted slightly and her eyebrows were knitted together in concern. Fiona wore the same hardened gaze, but at least she had stepped down from the chair to listen intently. Vaughn had his datapad clutched  _ hard  _ in his hands when his softened voice rang out. 

“But you’re here, now. What changed?”

Angel glanced at her dad, looking for permission. Getting him to agree to this explanation was difficult enough, but he’d been even less enthused about the idea of ‘blaring company secrets’, as he called it. She knew she should be insulted that her life support was essentially chalked up to be another one of Hyperion’s assets, but after years of watching her father’s accumulated breakdowns, she knew how many masks he hid behind. 

He caught her gaze and frowned harder, which she didn’t think was possible. 

_ “ No. _ _”_  

“Dad, please. I trust them.”

And she did. She had learned about trust the hard way when a former Hyperion executive coerced her into a sense of familiarity and safety, utilizing his title to get close to her under the guise of impressing Jack. He had seemed to care about her, asked her questions about the transition, and often kept her company during Jack’s planetside missions. Her fourteen year old self had been enraptured by the attention of a kind, well-dressed man with the perfect amount of five o’clock shadow. 

Until he drugged her soda, and she woke up in the back of a Hyperion transport with her hands tied and her mouth gagged. 

The dreams still come, sometimes. She tries not to think about what might have happened if she’d never heard her father’s voice from outside the transport, furious and methodical, the ground shaking as an army of loaders traced his footsteps like a band following the man with a baton. 

Her kidnapper had pleaded, screamed, and gagged, in that order. Blood hit the outside of her transport like a zipper of bullets, and she remembers wishing she had never woken up. God, what she wouldn’t have given to still be asleep. To be back behind her windows, where the world was distant, and could never hurt her. 

She thought of that moment, and when her father looked at her, she knew he understood that she  _ couldn’t _ give trust lightly anymore. If those words were passing from her lips, she had considered it immensely, and he needed to respect her decision.  

But Rhys was not a threat. He may not be entirely honorable, and he may have committed the only murder the Eden’s had seen in the past three cycles, but Angel had spent the last week illegally pouring through his entire history, his communications, his shitty jokes between himself and Sasha, and his bank account transactions. She knew his favorite places to eat, the nerdy ECHOcasts he frequented, and that he had a serious addiction to matching his ties to his socks. She knew he made large, anonymous donations to shelters for wayward children, that he was a borderline caffeine addict, and that he had his mother on speed dial. 

She knew this man’s character, and that was enough. 

She looked at Rhys, who stared back at her like she was worthy of his attention, like he had no intention of dismissing her words as childish foolery. Angel already knew she was dictating the outcome of this conversation, but it was nice to have it validated so plainly. 

“We won’t betray your trust, Angel,” Rhys assured her, putting his hand on Gaige’s shoulder. “Any of us.”

Angel nodded quickly, and before she could convince herself not to do it, she rolled up her sleeve to reveal the bright purple marks that ran the length of her arm and disappeared over her shoulder and down her back. 

The mood in the room shifted immediately, and the collective gasp momentarily transported her back to her windowed tube, where she had been something to be gawked at and studied. Her body revolted against the reminder, clenching her jaw together tightly and stiffening her muscles. Her hands shook as she rolled the sleeve up higher, and she felt Jack tense beside her. 

But the tension was shattered quickly as Gaige  _ laughed _ , and Angel couldn’t help startling as the smaller girl pushed Rhys off to come closer, taking Angel’s arm in her hands. 

“Cool!” she cried, and her eyes were wide and focused as they trailed up and down Angel’s arm, completely oblivious to everyone else’s discomfort. “It looks like circuitry! And--holy shit--does it  _ glow? ” _

Angel’s cheeks were hot, and she knew she was blushing. “I...yeah. I got really good at taking in and utilizing information, since I was bored and cooped up a lot. Dad said I was like his little processor, so when it came time to pick a design, I, you know, thought it was fitting. He, uh, even named a satellite after me.” 

_ That was stupid,  _ she thought, cursing herself.  _ Way to sound like a child, Angel. _

Jack looked exceedingly uncomfortable with any member of Atlas touching his daughter, but apparently found Gaige the least threatening of the group, and was letting it slide. They both knew that Angel needed the interaction, and it wasn’t as though he could have her striking up casual, unprofessional conversations with the Hyperion peasants. 

When Sasha moved forward though, Jack’s fingers immediately went to his thigh holster, and Sasha raised her hands placatingly and took a hefty step back. 

Gaige looked up from examining Angel’s arm and grinned excitedly at her, and Angel’s stomach bottomed out. That was different. Maybe she really  _ did  _ need to get out more, meet people that weren’t Hyperion lackeys trying to impress her dad through her. 

“I had a tattoo on my arm,” Gaige said conspiratorially,  _ much  _ closer than Angel was used to. “My old, organic arm, anyway. Had to cut the whole damn thing off so I could replace it with a robotic one to interface with Deathtrap. I could show ya the whole set-up, if ya want.”

Angel stared back, startled. “You...cut off your own arm?”

“Yeah,” Gaige responded casually, blowing a bubble of gum. “No biggie, this one’s better. Miss the tattoo though. What do these do?”

Angel was completely thrown. Gaige was still holding her arm, and where it had been a thing to be studied initially, now it seemed intentional, like she was convinced Angel might run off if she wasn’t nailed down. 

Partially true. 

She tried to clear her head. 

“They, um… they’re not tattoos, actually. They’re adhesives. They absorb the Eridium that my body’s producing, and store it in a way that doesn’t harm me, and doesn’t emit radiation. I have to change them out every day.”

Gaige grinned at her. “An Eridium sponge! That’s so dope! Let me guess, the glow gets brighter when you need to change ‘em out?”

Angel nodded, and the smile that broke across her lips felt almost indecent. Suddenly, she was embarrassed to be standing next to her dad. She had no idea what she wanted to say to this strange, exuberant girl in front of her, but there was a foreign desperation to keep the conversation going, like there was a countdown of wordplay that had to be met before Angel could consider it friendly banter and not just introductions, and she  _ had  _ to make sure it got there. 

Before she could decide what sentence she would embarrass herself with next, Rhys turned to Jack, his eyes shining. 

“This is what the Vault gave you, isn’t it? This--” he pointed to Angel’s adhesives, “--is the Eridian technology that you’ve perfected. A conduit for their raw energy. No slag is produced during this refinement?”

Angel shook her head, and Rhys laughed. 

“Jack, this is  _ incredible!  _ This advancement, the influx of wealth, this is how you did it, isn’t it?  _ God,  _ the power you must output, just from Angel alone… What am I looking at here? What do you produce?”

Jack shifted uneasily, and Angel knew he was torn between the pride of his company, and maintaining the secrecy of their success. 

“She can power Helios,” Jack answered finally. “Give her a few weeks, and the Eridium we siphon out of her can keep this place running for nearly a standard year. We have enough stored in our backup generators to keep Helios grinding away for centuries.”

“Incredible,” Rhys muttered again. “Not even Atlas could figure out how to refine Eridium without draining the original source. And there are  _ so  _ many veins on Pandora, the planet is basically swimming in it.” Rhys looked borderline hysterical with glee. “Jack, you’ve managed to create something that can harness Eridium as an infinite power source! It outdoes every current renewable energy by  _ lightyears! ” _

Jack glowered at him, unimpressed. “Gee, thanks Atlas. You really dumbed that down as quickly as possible, didn’t you? Now, if you’d kindly stop metaphorically sucking my dick, we need to leave.”

“What? Why?”

“Gabe’s lab,” Jack answered smoothly, and Angel watched as Gaige let her fingers slip off her arm in concern. It left her feeling more alone than she’d like, and Jack’s words sounded hollow, mute. “He wants to start the first round of tests on us to figure out how deep this shit goes.”

Angel noticed he didn't look at Rhys when he said it. And Rhys, very determinedly, didn’t look either. To cover up this very obvious avoidance, Jack glared at everyone else in the room. 

“And stop trying to break out, seriously. You’re like junkies looking for a stash. I’m not killin’ you yet, so sit down, grab some snacks, watch one of those motivational vids. There’s a real good one of me clearing out an old Dahl facility in Blythe Canyon.”

“That was Timmy, dad,” Angel muttered, before she could think twice about it. Rhys and Fiona snorted, and tried very badly to hide it behind coughs. 

Jack shot her a betrayed glare. “Semantics, honey. Now come on, we’re going.”

Gaige moved back to give Rhys room to pass her, and Angel panicked at losing her company so quickly. And considering she rarely panicked and was entirely unprepared for it, she could confidently say it was a solid excuse for what she did next. 

“I’d like to see your Deathtrap,” she blurted out, a jumble of words and letters that, thankfully, righted themselves into a proper sentence. She grabbed Gaige’s arm to keep her from fully turning away. Gaige looked at her hand, then at her, and Angel swore the grin that followed could’ve been classified at its own energy source as well.

“Sure thing, Halo,” Gaige said, and Angel’s heart  _ pounded  _ at the nickname. “Didja want--”

“Angel.”

Angel and Gaige both winced at the sound of Jack’s tone. Unmistakably  _ Dad. _

“Yeah?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Angel was deliberately not looking at Gaige, and she figured this was karma for making fun of Jack and Rhys for doing the exact same thing only seconds before. 

“I just thought…”

But what had she been thinking? Less than two days ago, her dad had assured her that every Atlas personal would be dead when he returned. Their future was still up in the air. These people were under Hyperion  _ lockdown _ , and Angel, for the first time in a long time, was trying to make a friend. She must be out of her mind. 

“She could stay,” Rhys cut in, and Fiona shot him a warning glare, which was ignored. “I mean, this place is being monitored right? You’ve got guards outside--”

“Oh, right,” Jack interrupted, looking murderous. “Let me leave my only,  _ majorly  _ vulnerable daughter in the hands of two Pandoran scum, an ex-Dahl headhunter, a teenage body-part-hacker, and a human calculator. Not only are you an idiot, Rhysie, you’re a really, really,  _ stupid  _ idiot. She’s not leaving my sight.”

“I could come with,” Gaige supplied with a shrug, turning back to Angel. “You said you were going to a lab? Sounds secure, right? I won’t cause trouble. I could teach you how to mecromance! That’s a trademark term, by the way. Every time you say it, you gotta pay me two bucks.”

Angel laughed, both from the ridiculousness of the statement, and from some deep-seated relief at Gaige’s mere presence. The only people she saw, day in and day out, were stiff-suited department heads, most of them over thirty, and any teenage interaction she got was memorizing the words in her favorite episodes of  _ Heartbeat _ , the popular high school based drama filmed somewhere at the opposite end of the galaxy. Gabe and her dad were her only  _ real  _ socialization, but they couldn’t give her what she needed.

“Gaige, I don’t--” Rhys started sounding uncomfortably hesitant, but Angel had already decided for them. She wasn’t ready to give this up. Not yet. Something was building here, and she was suddenly unable to stomach the idea of going back to the penthouse she shared with her dad, turning on the TV just to hear conversations while she scoured ECHOlogs. 

“Mr. North… I mean. Rhys. I trusted you with who I am. Trust me with this? I’m the second most important person on this station, and I’m heavily guarded. If she’s with me, she’s safe.”

She could  _ feel  _ Jack’s proud, if still annoyed, smirk more than she could see it, and Gaige whistled, low and impressed. 

“Well hell, with an invitation like that, how can you let me refuse, Rhys? C’mon. C’mon c’mon _c’mon_ \--”

“Yes, fine, just shut up,” Rhys relented, but he still didn’t looked thrilled with the idea. “Lead the way then, Hyperion.”

Angel knew he had meant that jab at Jack, but she was feeling uncharacteristically prideful, and somewhat girly. In a mad fit of bravery, she linked her arm with Gaige’s and led them towards the door. 

Behind her, she could hear Jack and Rhys following, silent and brooding.  
  


///

 

“This is barbaric,” Rhys grumbled, twirling cords around his fingers. “I know there are biomedical scanners here. I saw 3D renderings when we came in.”

“As I’ve said before,” Gabe sighed, fiddling with things in the corner of the lab, “I want this to be as minimally invasive as possible. This is uncharted territory,  _ Doctor,  _ and mixing manmade tech with Eridian tech might prove fatal, so please, let’s try and get this done as quickly as possible, without any distractions.”

“He means ‘shut up’,” Jack added helpfully, smirking at Rhys from the opposite chair. He looked, somehow,  _ more  _ intimidating with wires trailing from his face and arms, like he was evolving into some hyper-realistic caricature of himself.  

Rhys glared at him. “This would be a lot easier if you just let me turn my Eye back on. Or at least give me my fucking arm back. I could scan both of us with  _ Eridian  _ tech and solve, like, every problem at once.”

Rhys had known better than to  _ ask  _ for his cybernetics back, especially after Jack was showing the good grace to let his team live in relative comfort. He hadn’t even made a fuss about the dampener. But he knew he had a solid point, and he’d gladly grind it into the dirt until Hyperion saw reason. 

“I rather like you like this,” Jack grinned, dismissing him. “You look like that one-armed bandit living down in the distillery. We should get you an eyepatch though, pumpkin, the vacant ECHOeye is kinda freaking me out.”

“Stop pissing each other off,” Gabe chastised, leaning over his computer to tap at the keyboard. “You’re messing up the readings.”

Rhys fell silent, distracting himself from Jack’s entirely punchable face by watching Angel and Gaige at the far end of the lab. They were conversing avidly, their shoes scuffing on the floor as they moved around Gaige’s Deathtrap. Gaige was entirely relaxed, pointing and explaining and allowing Deathtrap to purr over the attention, while Angel seemed so out of place in her fitted Hyperion dress in a pristine lab, conversing with a girl who wore metal fasteners in her pigtails and had ‘anarchy’ written, quite literally, all over her shirt. She was out of her element in her own company’s conditions, and it showed. 

But when Gaige smiled at her, Angel’s face brightened, and Rhys instinctively knew she was more than happy to be dragged out of her comfort zone. 

Jack followed his line of sight and frowned, as though the sight of his daughter’s happiness was an instant cause for suspicion. For a moment, the only sound was Gabe typing away at a computer, and the hum of the machines that surrounded them. 

“She was afraid, wasn’t she?” Rhys asked quietly. “She was worried of what we’d think of you, after seeing her in that place.”

He didn’t look at Jack, but he could feel the tension between them like a clearing fog, exposing the delicate balance of begrudging respect and lackadaisical indifference.

“I don’t know what the hell she was thinking,” he answered brusquely, as if the idea of being able to read his daughter’s intentions was a ridiculous fantasy. “Pretty pissed we had to do this at all.”

“Yes you did, don’t give me that shit. She didn’t want us to think you’d done something to hurt her. She wanted to clear you of guilt, didn’t she?”

Jack wouldn’t meet his eyes when he turned back, but Rhys figured that was par for the course. He didn’t know much about Jack, but ‘emotional vulnerability’ didn’t seem to be a strong suit, especially not after the betrayal he’d witnessed on Elpis. 

“I have a reputation,” Jack muttered finally. “One I’m very,  _ very _ happy to enforce. And when bandits find out about her -- because they  _ do  _ find out, the bastards -- things are assumed. I do my best to cull the traitors, the leaks, but…”

He stopped, and his eyes hardened. Rhys didn’t push, because the blanks had started to fill themselves in. He imagined what he would have thought of the information if he had stumbled across it without  _ living  _ it through Jack. A young girl, screaming, trapped in a tank that had Hyperion tech plastered across it like a conquering flag. Jack, desperately trying to keep the whole thing secret while ruthlessly running a company that specialized in human testing and mass bandit murder. A company that  _ thrived  _ on selling secrets and wrote the book on backstabbing. 

Well, with a reputation like that, no combination of anything Jack did could be construed as ‘compassionate father’ from the outside. Still, Jack was hiding a large chunk of this mystery, and Rhys was always happy to put his nose where it didn’t belong.

“What aren’t you telling me about her?” Rhys asked softly, wary of being overheard by Angel. It felt disrespectful to talk about her when she was so near. “How did she get exposed?”

Jack still wouldn’t look at him. He kept his eyes trained on his daughter, as though she might she might be snatched by bandits the moment he looked away. 

“A lot of idiots make the mistake of assuming her favor will land them somewhere special when they step their arrogant asses into my office,” he threatened. “You think that ever works out for them?”

Rhys smiled. Because Jack, for all his logic, and for all of his power, was a bit clueless to how blatantly he advertised his weakness. 

“You don’t have to tell me, it’s fine. But yes, Jack. I do think it works out for them.”

Jack’s eyes flashed towards him, flicking down his torso before trailing back up to where they were meant to be. “Watch it, Rhysie. Gabe’s gonna get this shit figured out, and you’ll be back on the firing line.”

As if on cue, Gabe grumbled and tapped a key on his computer just a little too aggressively. 

“This isn’t working, Jack. The machines can’t pick up any atypical brain activity.”

“Then get the bioscanner,” Jack ground out. 

_ “ Or, _ _”_   Rhys interrupted, looking imploringly at Gabe. “Give me control of my Eye. You already know that Eridium tech is going to be the only thing that’ll read this situation properly, and we’re just wasting time here. Look, I’ll project everything I’m doing to your screen, okay? A joint research project, it’ll be great.”

Gabe looked at Jack. “I have to side with Atlas, here. It’s our best bet of figuring out how to undo this.”

“Fine,” Jack spat, pulling the wires from where they were attached at his temple. “The sooner I stop having dreams from the poster boy elite, the happier I’ll be.”

Rhys paused in taking off his own monitors, his pulse hitching.  _ “ What? _   What did you dream about?”

“Calm down, nothing that’ll shatter your fragile ego,” Jack mumbled. “Just some corporate party. Atlas funded, by the way everyone was tripping over themselves to get to you.”

Jack said it casually, but the fact that he mentioned it at  _ all  _ meant that it had resonated with him. Rhys couldn’t help but grin, despite how fucking  _ weird  _ it was to hear about his own memories inflicting themselves on a man he used to admire from a galaxy away. Rhys was prideful, that much was true, and while it seesawed between being a gift and a curse in his career path, he was more than happy to take the spotlight away from Jack for once. 

“Well, you’re welcome for that experience. I imagine people are usually tripping to get  _ away  _ from Handsome Jack, so it must have been new for you.”

“Ha ha,” Jack mocked, tossing various cords across the floor carelessly. He paused, considering. “Still, you can schmooze with the best of them, kid, I’ll give you that. Gimme your arm.”

Rhys held his remaining arm out with no hesitation. He wanted to linger on how his instantaneous trust should have alarmed him, but he was far too focused on the elation of getting his Eye back online. Jack pulled a knife from his belt and flicked it open, grabbing Rhys’ wrist roughly. 

Instantly, his skin goosebumped and a warm sensation burst forward from his spine, travelling across the extremities of his body like he’d just taken a warm sip of brandy after a day spent in the cold. Jack’s fingers tightened on him, and Rhys looked up to find his eyes had slipped closed. 

But the moment was fleeting, and over as quickly as it came. Jack’s eyes opened. He avoided Rhys entirely, and Rhys was all too happy for it. Normally, Rhys thrived on things he couldn’t explain, as it meant one more thing for him to deconstruct and theorize over. But this was beyond his realm of understanding, and he couldn’t find where to draw the line between fascination, and terror.

“What are you doing?” he asked quickly, if only to avoid having to speak about the peaceful sensation they’d both obviously just felt. Jack tapped on his arm with the blunt side of the knife. 

“We put the dampener under your skin, cupcake. It won’t react to anything that’s not internal. Can’t risk you finding a way to un-neuter yourself while we weren’t watching, right?”

“Motherfucker,” Rhys muttered, looking at the red part of his arm that he’d been idly scratching for the past day. “No wonder it itched.” He watched Jack run the blade over his arm, as though he were enjoying watching Rhys tense. “Hey, um, I can do it. I’d rather do it, honestly. ...Please let me do it.”

Jack grinned at him, finally looking like he had the high ground again. “Don’t worry babe, I’m good with my hands.”

Rhys hated the pull in his stomach at the implication. He really did. The hard thud of his heart in his chest said otherwise. 

“Get on with it then,” Rhys breathed out. “And don’t be an asshole about it.”

But Jack was taking his time, studying Rhys just as intently as Rhys was trying to avoid the gaze. 

“Quick question first. What did  _ you  _ see last night?”

Rhys’ heart thudded again, as though he was caught in a lie. But he’d done nothing wrong. Whatever he saw had been out of his control.  _ It wasn’t his fault.  _

“What?”

“You know, what of mine did you see? I saw your silly little conference with the pricey champagne and your frankly  _ adorable  _ suit. Did your mom help you pick it out?”

“She did, actually,” Rhys sneered. “She’s the fashion guru of three planets in the Edens. I’ve been ahead of the style trend for nine seasons, thanks to her.”

“Oh my god,” Jacked sighed, and he looked pained. “You’re like a circuit breaker for my dick. On, off, on, off. Now, answer the question, pumpkin.”

Rhys, trying very, very hard to choose between being embarrassed and being offended, and had to think diligently to remember what he saw. Something about space? Useless. 

“Elpis.” He said finally. “I saw you on Elpis, with that horrible… whatever it was. The three-faced thing.”

Jack, who had probably been expecting something far duller, pressed the blunt side of the blade against Rhys’ arm a little harder. “Did you see Lilith?”

What could he say to that?  _ Yeah, I saw her melt half your face off. I saw you suffer. I know what’s under the mask, Jack.  _

Instead, he settled with, “Real bitch, that one.” Then, to steer the conversation away from the undesirable topic, he added. “Heard you and Moxxi had a thing. Any chance you’ll be giving up that memory soon?”

Jack huffed out a laugh. “Unlikely. Most of my memories of her have been replaced with the fantasy where I put a bullet between her eyes. It’s less erotic, but far more satisfying, I promise.”

And with that, he dug the blade into Rhys gently, making a small incision just above the bend in his arm. Rhys winced, but compared to the pain of the previous day, it was a tolerable hurt, and he watched with morbid fascination as Jack angled the tip of the blade just enough to pop out the tiny dampener lodged under this skin. 

“I feel like you were only that gentle because you knew it’d hurt you too,” Rhys mused, pulling his arm back and wishing that he had his other hand so he could staunch the slight bleeding. 

“You’d be right,” Jack admitted with a smile. “It’s annoying, but keep being a prick and see how fast I stop giving a shit. Now, one last step.”

And with that, he dropped the dampener on the floor and crushed it under his boot. Immediately, the internal lightning storm that signalled Rhys’ cybernetics booting up roared to life in his skull. The jolt was uncomfortable, and with it came an even bigger headache than the one he’d suffered through above the Vault. But hell if it wasn’t all worth it as soon as his Eye came online. 

It was like coming out of temporary paralysis, like he had reattached a limb lost long before he had learned to need it. It still felt slightly skewed, considering the actual lack of cybernetic arm that the Eye was perpetually connected to, but the relief was still tangible. 

“Thank you,” Rhys breathed, and Jack again adopted that strange look, like he wasn’t sure how to carry a polite conversation. To avoid listening to his tacky, swagger-encrusted response, Rhys looked towards Gabe. “You got a screen ready you want me to project to?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said, “Holographic display is behind you.”

“Perfect.” Rhys stood, moving his chair and the monitoring machine out of the way. With an easy flick, he linked his Eye to the display, which was still running a preliminary start screen. Within seconds, he was fully connected to his own body, and instructing it to conduct a full scan. 

“It’s going to do a full medical scan,” Rhys mumbled, aware that he should likely be running a commentary for his own safety. Gabe and Jack were standing close by, their eyes fixed on the 3D display as a basic model of his own body flickered into view. 

> _ SCANNING… _
> 
> _                      SCANNING... _
> 
>  
> 
> **_WARNING_ ** _ : COMPATIBILITY ENHANCEMENT OFFLINE _
> 
> _ RHYS_W1NZ PROGRAM OFFLINE _
> 
> _ PLEASE RECONNECT ATLAS BCA200-X CYBERNETIC FOR FULL EFFICIENCY _
> 
>  
> 
> _ SCANNING… _
> 
> _ SCANNING... _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Temp: 38C _
> 
> _ B/P: 128/80 _
> 
> _ Pulse: Elevated _
> 
> _ Oxy. Saturation: Normal _
> 
>  
> 
> _ Anxiety levels: Elevated _
> 
> _ Confidence: 73% _
> 
> _ Likelihood of Confrontation: 85% _
> 
>  
> 
> **_ATTN_ ** _ : Laceration on left arm, upper cubital fossa. Mild dehydration. Moderate residual alcohol content. Residual bruising... _
> 
>  

On and on it went, detailing Rhys’s current physical state, both mentally and emotionally. If he hadn’t been so strung out on what his Eye would eventually read, he might have been embarrassed, but Jack and Gabe remained silent and oddly respectful. 

Finally, the word ‘anomaly’ caught Rhys’s attention.

 

> **_ATTN_ ** _ : Anomaly found. Neural oscillations exceeding 162 HZ.  _
> 
>  
> 
> **_ADMINISTER LOCALIZED SCAN?_ **

 

“Huh,” Rhys muttered, because intelligent things were currently eluding him. “That’s...weird.”

“What?” Jack asked, impatient. “Translate nerd for me, Gabe.”

But Gabe was shaking his head. “Neurology isn’t really my department. But I don’t think brain waves are supposed to operate on that frequency, correct Rhys?”

Rhys tried to ignore how the use of his given name by a potential colleague made him desperately ache for home. “No. It’s, um. Well, the highest naturally occurring brain waves usually tap out somewhere around forty hertz. Gamma rays. Heavily debated things among the neuroscience community, but they’re most active in individuals that have a higher sense of perception.”

“What, like, psychics and shit?” Jack asked, crossing his arms like he had to prepare to fend off dangerous, mythical knowledge a CEO could never hope to trust. 

“Mm, think more like monks on the older planets. Spiritual awareness, communication, wisdom beyond years, things of that nature. Like I said, it’s heavily debated. We’re kind of standing in the doorway and looking in, where that’s concerned.”

“This is wonderful,” Gabe interrupted, looking at the screen as if he understood  _ all  _ of it. “It’s a simple explanation for an extraordinary event! All we need to figure out how to do is block the receptors of that particular frequency, and it should cut off the connection.”

“Not necessarily,” Rhys corrected, his mind working overtime as it tried to comprehend. He felt like he did back in the Vault, staring at the impossible, feeling it tremble the world around him. “Blocking the connection could result in the same problems that death would. I… don’t immediately know of a way to test a blocker without potentially harming us.”

“What happens if you administer that scan thing?” Jack asked, pointing towards the prompt on the screen. “Would a scan tell us anything else? Maybe if there’s on/off switch? Instruction manual? Sagely advice on how to undo ancient Eridian bullshit?”

Rhys hesitated, unsure. 

“Administering a scan could affect my cybernetics. Considering we seem to share not only memories, but pain receptors, I’m willing to bet that scanning would result in opening that frequency up further.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “I’m going to be blunt Jack, and admit that I’m not thrilled with the idea of you potentially having control over my implants.”

Jack shrugged, not looking offended at the slightest. “That’s fair. Could we run a simulation?”

Rhys bit his lip, trying to focus. He needed to look at this like he looked at all other problems -- as if they weren’t his. He needed to forget that the unexplainable and potentially deadly oscillation transmitting through his mind had the capability of frying him from the inside out in seconds.

“Yes. I’d have to build a program that would take into account my implants, as well as our combined Eridium exposure. It would take time.”

“Oh,” Jack said, snapping his fingers. “The Eridium exposure. That’s probably why that fat-mouthed soldier and his buddy got deep fried, right? This was only supposed to be accessible to people who have been exposed to Eridian tech. The Vault would have to have a way to weed out the losers.”

“That would explain why their internal organs melted,” Gabe stated lightly. “The body isn’t equipped to handle that kind of internal frequency, and the coroner’s reports say that they looked like they had been  _ shaken  _ to death. Their bones were shattered and their organs burst.”

Rhys made a face, trying to rid the image of Simmons and Cordova’s screaming faces from his head. They way they had  _ melted  _ in front of him... 

Jack chuckled. “Squeamish, buttercup?”

“Yes,” Rhys answered honestly. “At least, I am when I’m half-convinced I’m going to die in the same way.” He shook his head, trying to refocus, and settled his gaze on Gabe. “I’ll need a programmer, possibly a team of them. I’m capable, but not quick, and it’ll be faster if I delegate the vanilla chunks to someone else so I can focus on the fine tuning. Who’s your best coder?”

Rhys watched as Gabe’s eyes slid slowly away from him, like a canoe being carried away from the bank, and onto Jack. 

“Aw, Levinson, you’ll make me blush,” Jack tittered, just as Rhys shut his eyes in disbelief.

“Seriously?” Rhys hissed. “You’re a _programmer?_ _That_ was your humble beginnings?”

Jack looked bewildered, and slightly miffed. “Yeah, duh. Also, I’m a pretty fucking decent engineer, if you haven’t noticed. Who do you think designed this goddamn station?”

Rhys shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, some dead asshole? Kind of thought you strolled in here, guns blazing, and hijacked it. Full-on pirate style.”

“You’re confusing your dreams with reality again, kid,” Jack smirked, still looking slightly put-off but trying to regain his composure. “Trust me, I’d know now.”

“Shut up,” Rhys shot back in embarrassment, though he knew he was only being teased. “Look, by the time information gets over to us in the Eden’s, it’s sketch. No one knows what’s embellished, and what’s not. And seeing as how we don’t have a Systems Alliance military anymore, no one is willing to come over here and check it out themselves after Dahl got their asses handed to them.”

“So did Atlas,” Jack reminded him. 

“A problem of the past, I assure you,” Rhys growled back. “My point still stands. No one knows what the fuck you’re up to over here, and frankly, no one cares, as long as you don’t start branching out. So, you being a programmer that worked their way up the corporate ladder is just as believable of a story as you being a pirate and murdering your way into the throne.” He paused. “Nice throne, by the way. Don’t know if I mentioned. A little ostentatious for me, but perfect for you.”

Jack was grinning at him. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed and fumbling for words. Anyone ever tell you that, pumpkin?”

“No,” Rhys snapped back. “I’m very rarely embarrassed, so it’s not normally an issue.”

“I bet your mom says it. You know, when she’s dressing you for your fancy galas.” 

Jack was still grinning at him, and Gabe had taken to scouring over a datapad just to avoid being drawn into the bizarre spectacle. Rhys shut his eyes and tried to gather his strength. All Jack needed was an excuse. Rhys wouldn’t let him dig that deep. 

“Alright, enough. Are you delegating this to a team, or are you coding it yourself? Because I’d like to start immediately.”

“I’ll do it,” Jack said soberly, sharing a glance with Gabe. “Don’t need more people involved in this than absolutely necessary. Besides, it’d be cruel of me for inflict your insufferable Atlas morals on my coders.”

“My morals? You mean  _ not  _ airlocking employees?”

“Yeah. I don’t want them thinking they can start expecting that from me,” Jack scoffed. “Gabe, get me that mean lady with the nice legs from Requisitions. I want some equipment brought up to my office, but I want it  _ off  _ inventory.”

“Yvette, sir?”

“That’s the one. Also, get me the head of Security’s Propaganda department. I need to do some damage control. What’s his name? Barnes?”

Gabe looked up at Jack boorishly. “There’s no current head for the Security’s Propaganda department, Handsome Jack. You shot Barnes in the kneecap three weeks ago for putting a Claptrap unit in one of the adverts.”

“So?” Jack snarled. “Residual lead ain’t enough to kill him, why didn’t he go back to work?”

Gabe cleared his throat delicately. “Seems he had some enemies, sir, and didn’t quite make the hobble over to medical. They found his body stuffed in a janitorial closet later that night. The selection board already sent over a final assessment of replacements two weeks ago, and they’re just waiting for your appointment.” Jack raised his eyebrow, as if questioning how Gabe knew all this, and Gabe sighed. “Angel has been very vocal about her annoyances, recently. Your backlog of paperwork that’s awaiting sign-offs are, respectfully, one of those annoyances.”

Jack groaned, as if choosing a replacement for the department head he condemned to death was a  _ major  _ inconvenience in his day.  _ “Fine.  _ Angel!”

Rhys looked over in enough time to watch Angel’s swoop of dark hair swish through the air as she turned. Giggles were forgotten instantly as her spine turned to steel, and she gave Jack her full attention from across the room. 

“Yes sir?”

“Choose a new idiot for Security’s Propaganda department for me, and sign my name off on it. Have them meet me at my office in an hour. And no blubbering fools, Angel! Confidence  _ only _ , got it?”

“Yes sir,” she nodded, and immediately pulled out her ECHO. Gaige stood by quietly, showing an unnerving amount of respect for Angel’s deference. Rhys felt a foreboding under his skin. Gaige was growing too fond, far too quickly. 

He’d always been  _ very  _ good at letting the world twist and turn around him, ushering him through one door and closing off another. He worked hard to get to where he was, but most of his good fortune had come from talent - something that required very little effort and extra work on his part. He had gotten lucky. He was gifted in a way that others studied their whole lives just to comprehend, but in no circumstances did that make him a leader. It did not make him wise. He  _ hired  _ people to be wise for him, out here in the unknown, where boardrooms had pistols under the table and roulette boards on top. Out here where a smart mouth begged for a barrel. 

Back in the Edens, he could save them. There, all he needed was his position, his power, and his influence. But saving them from Handsome Jack required a skillset he didn’t think he had. 

“Let’s go, Atlas,” Jack grumbled, motioning towards the doorway. “Start thinking of what hardware you’ll need.”

 


	7. caught your hand in the jar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your comments continue to blow me away, guys. I love seeing the screams and hype from returning readers, as well as new ones telling me how committed to this they've become. I really am touched by every single word, and I can't thank you guys enough for the time you take to yell things at me <3
> 
> Also, another HUGE thanks to yukiayanami, my incredible beta, who basically got this chapter ready to post entirely on her own because I'm currently being a lazy bitch with pneumonia. Thank you bby.)

_///_

_And nobody knows where you'll end up_

_Only guarantee in life is death or a headfuck_

_Yeah, you thought it was a set up, well guess what_

_Now you can catch up with the rest of my "Best Of"_

_///_

 

Rhys was standing next to Jack’s desk, fuming. 

Jack hadn’t offered him a seat, but instead made him stand at his side (much as a secondary would have to do), while Jack basked leisurely in his ostentatious throne chair. And sure, Jack had watched Rhys slip so easily into the COO position when he was faking his intentions back at the conference room, but to do it here, under order? _That_ had earned Jack a dirty look and a snarl. 

His newfound jovial mood improved even more when the new head of Propaganda arrived at his office. 

“Hugo Vasquez,” Angel announced, before showing the man in. He was broad and thick, and looked ready to burst out of his own immaculately tailored suit. He had a full beard and luscious, wavy locks, but Jack could see the familiarity in the nervous energy that had Vasquez’s eyesight bouncing across the room.

He grinned, immediately placing him. “No way. Wallethead! How’d you get out of the mail room, buddy?”

Vasquez approached steadily, his gait remaining confident while his corporate smile twitched. “Yeah, that was always a good one, sir,” he chuckled in his deep voice, running a hand through his hair idly. “You were always an inspiration, truly, in my attempts to move up in our illustrious company. I’m… very honored you chose me to succeed in my predecessor’s footsteps, sir. I won’t let you down.”

Jack ignored him, because _yuck,_ and turned to Rhys, who was far more entertaining. 

“He was bald before, you know,” he explained casually. “Ol’ Vasquez here was doing these treatments, hair implants. Looked like an old man going through puberty all over again, it was hysterical. The back of his head, right, you with me? It looked just like one of those flap wallets! So sometimes I would go up and stick money to him, and the coins, he got those right away, but he could have dollars there for _hours_ and never know, it was _amazing."_

Rhys bit his lip, but said nothing, and Jack decided that he’d had  _quite_ enough of that attitude. 

“Introductions!” He declared. “Atlas, this is said Wallethead, previous mailroom clerk, potential murderer of Barnes, et cetera. Wallethead, this is Rhys Northcutt, COO of Atlas corporation, robot brain doctor or something, I dunno.”

Jack watched as Vasquez sneered at Rhys. It was typical. Dedicated Hyperion employees were under the assumption that degrading other manufacturers instilled their loyalty. They often mistook Jack’s rivals as their own personal punching bags, silently poisoning the Hyperion employee in the cubicle next to them while hissing about Dahl’s weak spine and Atlas’ pompous elitism. 

Idiots, all of them. 

“Your newest chew toy, Handsome Jack?”

 _That_ got Jack’s attention. Vasquez, clearly thinking Jack owed him some sort of camaraderie from knowing him in the _before_ time, was being bold. Normally, he didn’t allow any displays of alpha posturing in his office unless it was absolutely deserved (--Nisha, _god_ had she deserved it--), but he couldn’t deny that he liked watching Rhys fire back. And the boy needed so _very_ little prodding before he snapped. 

Jack looked over at Rhys, as if to appraise him, and to his delight he found Rhys already smiling serenely at Vasquez. 

“Handsome Jack needs some help with an issue on the station,” Rhys replied sweetly, as if he hadn’t noticed Vasquez’s insult. “He was hoping you could give your… _two cents ?”_

Jack had to hide his mouth behind his knuckles to avoid outright laughter, but he couldn’t help the snort that escaped him when Vasquez’s face just _fell_ , like he’d been triggered back to ten years ago and was going through an entirely unexpected episode of PTSD. 

“You’re newly elected to the job, but you seem self-assured, even confident.” Rhys continued, cavalier as ever. “He’s hoping to give you a run for your _money,_  and see if you can make a solid _change_ for the better in the department going forward.”

Jack snorted loudly, moving to put his head into his arms across his desk as he shook in laughter. Rhys did _not_ fucking disappoint. Jack had the freedom to berate and insult someone at his leisure, and never had to worry about backlash. But Rhys had to be _coy,_ and it made the condescending so much more impressive. It was dry and salty, whereas Jack’s was childish and dramatic, and fuck, it _worked._

“Right,” Vasquez answered, the deep curl to his voice gone at the unexpected turn of circumstances. He moved his gaze back onto Jack. “Did you, uh. What did you need my help with, sir?”

Jack had a take a moment to steady his breathing before he could answer. 

“I want a new line of company propaganda spilling out of the lines, no later than tomorrow,” he announced with a flourish, still grinning. “Helios only, nothing planetside. Yet.”

“Of course, sir,” Vasquez nodded, pulling the ECHOpad out of his blazer and tapping it to life. “Your specifications? Are we sticking with our primary color line, or are we introducing a new palette?”

Jack feigned thought for a moment, to build up the tension. “I’m thinking… Atlas, hon, move out from behind the desk.” Rhys did, looking annoyed. “There you go. Now turn for us.”

Rhys _glared_ at him. “I don’t think so.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Fine. Brat. You see those colors, Wallethead? That deep, boring blue, touch a bland silver, dash of putrid orange? That’s your palette. And I want that tried and true headline, _Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,_ but like, four different variations of that.”

“Seriously?” Rhys asked, unimpressed, and Jack grinned at him. 

“Yes, _seriously._ I’m going to have to let your mongrels out before they claw apart my executive suite. Besides, Atlas being seen on my station does wonders for foreign publicity. My team has let me know that stockholders are throwing around phrases like _rise in employment interest,_ and,” he paused to level Rhys with a smirk, _“..._ _merger. ”_

“Go to hell, Jack,” Rhys bit out, looking as though the very idea nauseated him. 

“What happened to your arm?” Vasquez interrupted, refusing to be the third most important person in the room. He looked at at Rhys empty socket in disgust, as though the less organic parts, the lesser the man. 

Rhys turned to him quickly, redirecting his anger as his words snarled and barbed their way out of his mouth. “It got lodged in the skull of the last guy that fucked with me, and they had to surgically remove it,” he growled, eyes narrowed and body radiating agitation. “I’ll be _more_ than happy to show it to you once they wipe the viscera off. Sound good, buddy? Alright?”

Jack couldn’t help but watch the contained fury. He thrived on it, and it he wasn’t careful, he was going to get addicted. Vasquez looked towards him with the expression of asking an owner to heel their pet, but Jack merely shrugged. He wasn’t responsible for Rhys’s behavior, even if he _was_ the one to egg it on (and the one who enjoyed it the most).

“He’s not wrong,” Jack supplied, but otherwise left the lie where it was. “You have your orders, so scram, Wallethead. Send your final submissions to me for approval.”

Vasquez left the room with as much dignity as he could muster, while still trying to cling to the facade that he, as a Hyperion employee, took up more of the room than Rhys did. 

Jack giggled, propping his feet up on the desk, and looked over to find Rhys scowling at him. 

“I’m not your plaything, Jack,” he scolded, accurately reading the source of Jack’s amusement. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Rhysie. You tried to play me for an idiot-- you’re lucky I don’t have you cleaning my boots with your tongue.”’

Rhys looked away, eyes hardened. For a moment, the only sound was that of the water features, bubbling and churning. Jack allowed the silence to stretch, content in finally having the higher ground again. 

“Did you mean what you said?” Rhys asked softly. “Will you let my team go home?”

“Home?” Jack blurted. “No, babe, they’re not going home. But, in my never-ending generosity, I’ll give them free reign to roam Helios, provided they have a guard detail.”

Rhys hesitated, looking appropriately skeptical. “You don’t strike me as benevolent.”

Jack felt a flash of irritation, before he smothered it. Of course Rhys was ungrateful. He was ashamed, and that’s what happened when people didn’t live up to their own expectations. They took it out on whoever was closest. Jack wasn’t the best at reading people, but he knew Rhys well enough to deduce that he didn’t like disappointing himself. 

At least, Rhys didn’t like to _lose,_ and doubting every move Jack made was the only thing he could currently win. 

Jack stood, unholstering his pistol as he moved. Rhys’s eyes widened, but he stood his ground as Jack approached him, undoubtedly determined to make sure his pride spoke for itself. Methodically, Jack pushed the barrel of his pistol against the tender flesh of Rhys’s neck, a mockery of what Rhys had done to him planetside. Still, Rhys remained silent, his eyes never leaving Jack’s, and if Jack didn’t know better, he could have sworn the kid was trying to entice him.

He had wanted to threaten, but the itch to _touch_ this ridiculously stubborn thing before him was an incessant need. He thought of the Vault, where Rhys had stood his ground fearlessly against him despite being half broken and laughably outnumbered. The look he’d worn as he spoke down to Vasquez, intent on being powerful despite Jack’s hold over him. It was all so alluring. And Jack was a weak man for confidence. 

Without considering the consequences, he reached out and gripped Rhys’s shoulder to bring him closer, half-hoping for that strange, alien thrill that contact had given him before, back in the lab, half-afraid of what it might mean.

He wasn’t disappointed. Something hot and electric spread under his skin from the point of contact, and it nearly knocked him back. Jack had always relished a fix, a habit he knew was crippling, but the feeling of bliss that enveloped him, coupled with Rhys's small, surprised gasp as it hit him too, was too addicting for him to renounce the bad judgement call. Instead, he moved his hand to grip Rhys chin, turning the kid to look at him. 

Rhys's eyes were wide, his pupils dilated. He looked strung out and half-ruined, and for a moment, they both seemed to forget the press of Jack’s pistol against Rhys neck as they drank in whatever rush was filling them both from the inside out. Slowly, unable to look away from Rhys while that _feeling_ coursed through him, he pulled his pistol away and holstered it. 

“See, pumpkin?” Jack breathed, and it was far too close. Rhys just had to sway forward an inch, and Jack would _have_ him. “Benevolence. Totally capable.”

A knock on the heavy, double doors was the only thing that made Jack pull back. He stepped away from Rhys just as Angel entered, Yvette following close behind her. 

“Yvette Bamis, from Requisitions.”

Angel took her leave, but not before shooting Jack a curious, disapproving look. 

Yvette looked as stern as ever, though Jack had only met with her a few times, personally. That was usually Timmy’s area. She approached him confidently, her heels clicking on the tile, and had no problem ignoring Rhys altogether, which was contempt enough in itself.

“Handsome Jack, sir. You wanted to see me?”

Her voice was hard, and no nonsense. Jack appreciated that. 

“Yup. I’m gonna need some equipment moved up here to my office. Nothing that’s been used before. I want a clean slate.”

“Of course. Do you have a list for me? I can have it here by the end of the day.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, whatever,” Jack responded, waving her off. “We’re gonna need the basics, some external drives, UPS or two, some processors with those new display screens… oh, and write it all off as something, alright pumpkin? It’s all going to be run on a private server in my office, and it’s all gettin’ destroyed afterwards, so have a story for the Expense department.”

“Yes, sir,” Yvette answered, scribbling neatly on her datapad. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, jabbing his thumb in Rhys’s direction. “Whatever Cyborg over there wants.”

Rhys, unfazed, began listing a slew of equipment, and Jack had to roll his eyes. Spoiled little Atlas freak. All Jack needed was a big enough processor, and he could code virtually anything. Why someone would want an occupation that required more armament than a pistol and a single machine, he couldn’t fathom. 

“Apologies, Mr. Northcutt,” Yvette interrupted, sounding anything but contrite. “But we don’t have a _neuronal axon diode matrix_ aboard Helios.”

“A _what?_ ” Jack interrupted, turning back around. “Is that a real thing, or are you fucking with me?”

“Of course it’s a real thing,” Rhys admonished, and Jack felt genuinely terrible for the Atlas employees that had to deal with that smug attitude. “It’s essential for transferring--”

“--wow, okay, I don’t care,” Jack interrupted. “Do you actually need it, or is it one of those _posh_ things? You know, asking for caviar when skag stromboli is totally fine?”

“Well, we can continue with Hyperion’s outdated equipment, if you’d like,” Rhys snorted, crossing his arms. “It went so well this morning, didn’t it? Also, skag meat is way too tough to be used in a stromboli.”

“Wow, a Vault Hunter _and_ a culinary expert. You really are a catch, aren’t you pumpkin?” Jack sassed, tapping his fingers irritably on his desk. Rhys only shrugged in response, determined to be as temperamental as possible. 

Yvette cleared her throat. “Sir? What do you advise on the matrix? According to my database, we don’t have any suitable replacements, either here or planetside. It’s not a…” she hesitated here, but made an attempt to keep her eyesight level. “It was not placed high on Hyperion’s priority of technical manufacturing.”

Rhys snorted. “I’ve noticed _advancement_ isn’t really the Hyperion way.”

“I’m sorry, Atlas, which one of us got our asses handed to us by Dahl?” Jack snapped, quickly losing his patience. Rhys words were like an incessant ringing in his ears, drowning out all outside noise until it was the only thing he could take in. “You might have the shiniest piles of trash between us, but you’re _fucked_ if you make an enemy. Your weapons are too expensive for mass production, and your military enlisted are glorified security guards. So, until you have a literal _army_ and the capability to fortify them, how about your shut your pretty face up?”

Rhys expression turned stony, but Jack’s tirade wasn’t enough to silence him. He was like a damn paddle ball -- the harder away Jack flung him, Rhys returned with even more velocity.

“I still need that matrix if you want to figure out a way to solve our… problem. There’s an Atlas facility in an old canyon outside of Wurmwater that’ll have one.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, taken aback at how easily Rhys deflected some insults, but was completely torn asunder by others. It needed to be investigated. You knew that offhand?”

“The ECHOeye and internal database isn’t just for show,” Rhys countered. “If I had my arm, I could give you a full display of the facility.”

“You’re real whiny about that arm.”

“Yeah. It’s my _arm._ ”

Jack ran a hand over his face, considering. Wurmwater was abandoned most of the time, once Brick and Mordecai had make a lively week out of working their way through the pirate camps. It wouldn’t be difficult to send a team down there for retrieval. The faster Rhys got whatever equipment he needed, the faster they could sever the freaky brain-wave thing, and Jack could go back to ruling Hyperion without the Atlas baggage. 

He put a finger to the comm on his desk. “Angel, have someone bring the twerp’s arm back up here.” Then he turned to Yvette. “Get a transport loaded with the usual supplies,” he ordered. “Prep for a team of 20, full kit.”

“Ensure my Aries is there,” Rhys instructed, “As well as my Omega shield. It’s priceless, so please treat it as such.”

“Um,” Jack interrupted, shooting Rhys an incredulous look. “Excuse the fuck out of you, but what do you think you’re doing?”

“Going planetside,” Rhys answered, as if it were the most obvious thing. “I won’t have your people busting through the doors, guns blazing, shooting all the automated security in the facility. By the time I get that matrix, it’ll be littered with bullet holes.” 

Jack stared Rhys down, annoyed that he had a point. His soldiers, however effective, weren’t the most _clean_ people on the battlefield. But allowing Rhys to go down on Pandora was idiotic; sure, the kid took out Roland, but that was mainly due to a sharp tongue rather than sharp reflexes. How well could he handle himself if the bandits had moved back in to the property? What was the liability factor here? Outskirt bandits were known cannibals, and Rhys was nothing more than a cherry-topped corporate cake. If anything, he’d instill _glee_ rather than fear.

Before he could respond, Angel was nudging his door back open, her heels struggling to maintain her flowy walk as she lugged Rhys cybernetic in her arms. She looked like a baby foal, just learning how to navigate, as she approached them and dumped the arm across Jack’s desk with as much grace as she could muster. 

“Sorry,” she muttered to Rhys. “It was heavier than I thought it would be.”

“How the hell did you get that up here so fast?” Jack asked, incredulous. “It should’ve been down in R&D.”

“I had it brought up earlier,” she admitted. “Figured he might need it with the whole... _thing_ that’s happening.”

More attachment, Jack cursed inwardly. Angel was thinking about Rhys when not professionally required to do so. Taking personal care of his possessions rather than allowing them to be poked and prodded by his employees. This was the exact opposite of what he needed. 

“Thank you, Angel,” he said swiftly, his voice a clear dismissal. “I’ll call if I need you. Requisitions Girl, you can get the hell out,too. Make sure everything gets done, I want to be leaving in less than an hour.”

Both women vocalized their understanding, and practically fled from the office, their heels clicking in tandem. Rhys reached out with his organic arm and started opening the clasps on the cybernetic without waiting for permission to do so. “You’re coming too, then?”

“Of course I’m coming,” Jack snapped back, watching him struggle. “You’re still on my shit list. And in case you forgot, if something happens to _you,_ something happens to _me._ ”

“I can take care of myself,” Rhys argued, trying to keep his face stern, but it contorted slightly as he hefted the arm’s weight upright, to align with the port in his shoulder. 

“I don’t care about taking care of you, I care about taking care of _me_ ,” Jack reiterated. “I’ll admit, you surprised me with the Roland bit, but you played him. This is an operation, and not something you can sweet talk your way out of.”

Rhys gave a grunt of effort as he shoved his arm into the port, and a series of satisfying clicks and whirs signaled attachment. “You’d be surprised what I can sweet talk my way out of,” he responded, huffing slightly from the physical strain of initial connection. “Thanks for the arm back, by the way.”

“Well, you’re pretty useless without it,” Jack griped. 

A silence fell as Rhys’s body adjusted to re-established connection, his Eye glowing as it ran initial logistics. The world grew very still as Jack pretended to check over the messages in his inbox that Angel deemed urgent enough to forward to him, but he was distracted, unfocused. To his ever-increasing dismay, Rhys presence was still a noticeable alteration of his habitat, but where it had initially been a highlighted streak across his pristine office, it was losing its luminosity. Now, Rhys was a decorative throw pillow on a couch that he’d had for ages. Altering the place in a desirable way that could almost go unnoticed, but not unconsciously unappreciated. There was a calmness that swirled between them, an acceptance that invited a balance Jack wanted _no_ part of cultivating. 

He couldn’t trust any of it, anyway. His own perfect logic was likely to be corrupt with Rhys trekking the borders of his mind, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. What atmosphere was real? What synapses could be trusted, and which were just trying to force an acceptance of a -- currently -- irreversible connection? 

Rhys’ cybernetic whirred gently as he tested the movements. The sound steadied Jack’s heart, rather than urging him to arm himself, and it proved to be the final straw in Jack’s already thin patience. The feeling couldn’t be trusted. There were too many variables, too many unknowns, and whatever emotion was testing the waters of his acceptance (whether fabricated or organic), it would bring nothing but trouble.

“Get out,” he ordered, and tried not to focus on how his hands were shaking. “Have a guard escort you to the loading bay. Wait for me there.”

“And my team?” Rhys demanded, not missing a beat. “They’re trained for this, Axton especially. They should accompany us.”

“Your _team_ is lucky to be alive, Atlas,” Jack snarled, rising from his chair. Something was cracking, deep within him. Was he repeating his mistakes? Was he doomed to so perfectly set himself up for betrayal, time and time again? His voice was losing control, and he could hear the panic within him. “I’ll be dead before I let any more traitors have free reign on Pandora, so get _out,_ and don’t you dare fucking ask me again!”

He gripped the desk hard. Lilith, Moxxi, and Roland’s voices burst through the wall he’d carefully built up around them, whispering their simpering, faux apologies as they left him to die on Helios. Jack’s trust, thrown back in his face like they were gods rejecting a meager, poverty-infested offering.

Rhys remained so, so still, his eyes wide and curious, voice soft and horrified. “What did they do to you?”

But Jack just pointed a finger furiously at the door, his eyes never leaving the polished chrome of his desk, and Rhys was smart enough to understand the difference between a dismissal, and a last opportunity for safety. 

He left, leaving Jack wondering whether Rhys had heard those voices in his head, thanks to that damned connection, or if Jack needed to learn how to school his disposition.

 

///

 

Wurmwater was as attractive as its name implied. Rhys remembered the reports that reconnaissance had sent back, so many years ago, when he had been concerned that this “Treasure of the Sands” had been a localized name for a hidden Vault. Luckily, it was as innocuous as it sounded, containing nothing but sand pirate treasure, a relic of a past that instilled the brutality of the current pirates (if not the correct environment). 

Skeletons of monstrous creatures riddled the barren landscape, as though the sea had vaporized instantly and left its inhabitants to die frozen in place, baking in the sun until the rakks had picked the meat clean from the bones. Rhys gazed down at them through the triple-paned windows of the transport as they sailed by, a dreary sort of sadness taking over him. 

Pandora had very little to offer. Resources were so scarce in the populated areas that you had to steal if you wanted to live, and giving a wastelander a decent meal was likely to kill them just from culture shock. It was an awful planet, full of ex-cons that had been driven mad unnaturally, and naturally mad people who had sought Pandora out to be among their own kind. Insanity begot insanity, and these bandits, these scavengers, they fed from one another like the only purpose of murdering a man was to boast that you had outlived him. 

Sasha and Fiona had been hidden away, bundled around through safehouses in a city hidden by the shadow of a cavern. They had darted around like mice once the coast was clear, taking what they needed, bribing when they had to, killing only when forced. How long would they have lasted? Hollow Point had recently been taken under by the Crimson Raiders, who had erected watch towers and left tire tracks in every direction. Fools. In their poorly executed attempt to turn Hollow Point into a vassal compound under the guise of “protecting citizens,” they had announced to the bandits that there was a hidden cache of fresh meat under the mountain. 

He didn’t know what happened to Hollow Point. Fiona and Sasha turned their eyes to steel when he ever dared to mention it, so he tried not to anymore. 

He thought of Opportunity. Of the city Jack had been constructing for the past two years. It was a gleaming utopia, a paradise stated in chrome and high rises that stretched to heaven, glittering like daggers in the wide open valleys of Pandora. 

He looked up, searching for Tim. The man had been stationed by him for the seemingly endless four-hour flight, and was the only company in his tiny, isolated room. Jack hadn’t spoken a word to them when he boarded, then he proceed to lock himself in the back room with a scowl and a spiteful warning not to bother him. The Hyperion bees waited with the baggage, sleeping off boredom and squabbling over snacks. Rhys had taken the opportunity to nap himself, but now, with Pandora so close beneath him, trepidation was settling in, and he needed to talk to distract himself. 

“What’s the vetting process for Opportunity?” he asked the room, and his voice sounded too loud when it shattered the prolonged silence. 

Tim shifted from where he had been leaning against the door, opening his eyes blearily as if Rhys had interrupted a very satisfying sleep. “Why do you ask?” He mumbled lazily, and Rhys realized he was “turned off,” currently. This was _Tim_ now, not the body double of Handsome Jack, who spoke with an infuriating lexicon and had a smug smile stretched across a mask he didn’t need. 

Somehow, that relieved him. If Jack were to start invading any more spaces other than his own, physical presence, Rhys was sure he’d lose his mind. 

If he hadn’t already, all things considered. 

“Curiosity,” he responded easily. “Can’t be a background check. Everyone here is a criminal. ...You’d be dead if you weren’t.”

Tim cricked his neck and shrugged the stiffness from his shoulders, thankfully appearing unperturbed by conversation. “It’s judged by worth, I guess. You demonstrate your trade, and if you get approved, you’re put on probation. The length of that depends on previous crimes, as well as behavior inside the city. You get temp housing, then once we figure you’re a valuable asset to the city, you get an assigned apartment.”

“And food? Health care?”

“All supplied,” Tim answered easily. “It’s an easy trade, for us. We’re pretty desperate for farmers. We’ve got a few botanists on Helios, but this is Pandoran soil, different then the soft stuff we have up there. Locals know how to work it better than we do. Husbandry of any sort is going to be in high demand, especially for animals.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning on breeding skags?”

Tim scoffed. “Hell no. We’ve got some specimens from other planets that scientists think can thrive down here, given the right care. You ever heard of a chicken?”

Rhys shook his head. 

“Little white and brown thing,” Tim explained, holding out his hands as a measurement. “The meat is good, if you plump them up, and they lay eggs like mad. Real versatile animal. There’s some other stuff they have in cryo right now, embryos and bulbs and things, but I don’t know the details.”

“Does everyone have an equal shot of getting in?” Rhys hand gripped the rail next to him as the transport gave a lurch over an air pocket. Hopefully they were descending. His ass was far past the point of sore.

Tim shrugged, looking a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t a look Rhys was used to seeing from Jack’s face, and he had to turn back to the window to avoid the weird, phantom sensation of _wrong_. 

“Depends who you ask,” Tim responded softly, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “According to propaganda? Yes. Everyone is welcomed with open arms. Jack though, he has his own vetting process. Anyone that’s engaged in violence against Hyperion employees or equipment, they’re out. I’ll be surprised if they’re not gunned down at the gate.”

“Not a good look if you’re trying to sell safety,” Rhys mused. 

“Isn’t it, though?” Tim corrected. “It’s a display of prowess, right there at the entrance. Citizens won’t see the turrets or guards as a threat, but as their _own_ defense. When you’re desperate for a place to lay your head that won’t have you worrying about whether or not you’ll wake up the next morning, well. You’ll probably flock towards the guy with the biggest guns.”

Rhys reconsidered this, trying to put the luxury of his own planet’s safety in the back of his mind. He needed to relate to the situation as someone else, and put his own ideals on the backburner. 

Were people in constant danger that willing to buy peace of mind? How bad would circumstances have to be when dictatorship (benevolent or not) would appeal to someone as a place of safety? Opportunity was a luxury resort that cost only servitude and an allegiance to Hyperion, whether they agreed with Jack’s decisions or not. But compared to what waited outside the gates -- screaming, shrieking psychos on dirt bikes that tore into flesh with dirty, rotten fingernails -- tyranny wouldn’t sound so bad, Rhys reasoned. In fact, letting someone else make the hard decisions while you tended to your chickens and ate three meals a deal, that might even be considered a good fucking deal. 

“Hyperion has made a lot of enemies though,” Rhys reminded Tim. “People aren’t going to forget that.”

“Jack gives just as much as he takes,” Tim said, and his voice sounded too hollow for the words. Like it was a rehearsed line that used to mean so much more, but time and use had eroded it to something bitter. Like ten years of war had drowned out the bright-eyed kid, eager to serve. “You just have to put in the time, and show your worth. Be on the right side of history.” 

Rhys glanced at him, taking in the face that, at one point, Tim must have considered a stranger. Rhys had figured that the waitlist for being Handsome Jack’s doppelganger was long, filled with hopefuls begging to wear the skin of their hero, but looking at Tim now and _not_ seeing Jack, he was starting to understand the process might not have been sunshine and daisies. Maybe there hadn’t been a waitlist at all. 

Maybe Tim had been handpicked. 

A shudder tore involuntarily through Rhys. 

“You seem incredibly loyal,” he mused, if only to hide his discomfort. “Does Jack inspire that?”

The smallest of hesitations, before: “He does, yeah.”

The transport hit turbulence again, and when Rhys looked out the window, the ground was far closer than it had been a minute ago. He could see the Atlas facility in the far distance, a few miles out, and his stomach flipped in fear as he picked out no fewer than four pillars of smoke billowing upwards from a shantytown that had been hastily constructed near the entrance. 

Tim sighed, eyesight set on the makeshift cluster of shelters. “Looks like the day just got longer,” he mumbled. “Shame we couldn’t bring your team. We could have used them.” 

 

///

 

Whether or not Jack was in a better mood when he stormed out of the transport was indecipherable, as he’d put on some kind of _firefight_ persona. He became the person Rhys saw in vids: barking strategic orders and hefting fifteen pound weapons as if they were plastic toys. Jack became the action figure _everyone_ wanted for Christmas. It would have been a sight to see, if Rhys didn’t feel so out of place in the Hyperion swarm, like the one browned chip in the bag that everyone had to keep pushing to the side to get the good shit. He wasn’t respected here; he was in the way.

Tim evidently felt some kind of pity for him, and hand-delivered Rhys’s Aries and Omega from the crates of supplies. Before Rhys could properly thank him, Tim had cloaked himself, transforming into nothing but a slightly wonky version of the sand dunes behind him. If Rhys hadn’t seen him do it, he’d assume the sunlight was playing tricks on his eyes, but in reality, he was actually staring at the view from Tim’s back, captured by miniscule high-speed cameras that projected the image across to the opposite side. A truly remarkable device by Hyperion standards, especially since Atlas was still struggling to contain the cloaking field to the organic user, and not three feet in either direction.

He watched curiously as Tim began his lonesome trek towards a cliff that overlooked the camp, likely on Jack’s orders. A cloaked sniper was a formidable ally, and Rhys seriously doubted that Jack would want his doppleganger being common knowledge to anyone outside of Hyperion, especially with an unknown affiliate in tow. 

Jack, as though summoned by Rhys’s thoughts, appeared by his side with a frown. “Come on,” he ordered, nudging Rhys shoulder harder than was strictly necessary. “We’re gonna take cover under that ledge TimTam is on, and work our way up. How good is that Eye at long distance?”

“It’s excellent,” Rhys replied through gritted teeth, trying not to be annoyed at the shoulder check. He needed to focus his priorities, but Jack’s touch was both annoying and alluring, even through the gloves.

“Perfect. Look for an insignia for me, pumpkin. They’re usually scrawled on the flags, painted with blood and shit or something.”

Rhys coerced his stomach to settle in for what he might see, and focused his Eye. The bandits were easy to spot, loitering around the fires a few klicks out, but they weren’t familiar. Their clothing had been designed for protection against the blistering sand, and their heads and hands were wrapped in a thick, dirty blue cloth. Many had pistols or other small arms strapped to their sides, but Rhys caught a few cutlasses propped up against walls and firepits. 

“A skull,” he answered finally, when he caught a glimpse of a sloppily painted image on one of the wooden pallet walls. “Two hooks in place of crossbones.”

Jack was very still beside him. “Is there an S across the forehead of the skull?”

Rhys shook his head, allowing his Eye to lose focus and reel itself back in to their current surroundings. “Not that I could see. But, it’s like you said, that place is a mess. The skull was half smeared by blood.”

“And shit,” Jack reminded him with a smirk. “Don’t forget shit. These are still bandits.”

“I know what bandits are like,” Rhys shot back. “You’re not going to have very many residents in Opportunity if _this_ \--” Rhys motioned irritably towards the shantytown. “--is what you’re working with.”

Jack scoffed. “Please, not everyone on this planet is fucking insane. And besides, locals are just the practice group. Soon as I can be sure that Opportunity can be self-sustaining, I’m bringing in off-worlders. Primo guests looking for something new that’ll take those penthouse suites, giving them a nice, good view of my gates.”

Rhys scrunched his nose, reading between Jack’s lines. “Gross. People are going to _pay_ you so they can watch bandits get butchered trying to break in? Like some kind of fucked up tourist attraction?”

“Hey, I don’t make the kinks,” Jack admonished. “I just fulfill. Supply and demand, princess. Now let’s go. I thought these might have been Scarlett’s troops, but her ship isn’t here, and she’d sooner be dead before she let that beast go.”

“Scarlett?” Rhys questioned, stepping in line next to Jack as their small company made their way to the shadow of the overhang. The Hyperion soldiers and Engineers behind and in front of them had heavy footfalls, courtesy of their armor, but they seemed relatively disinterested in the conversation between CEO and COO. Then again, they’d probably learned respect the hard way, courtesy of Jack and Hyperion’s high turnover rate. 

“This crazy pirate bitch,” Jack supplied, his eyes turning hawkish to survey the surroundings as they moved. “We’ve had some deals in the past, and she’s tried to put my balls through the grinder every single time, but that kind of comes with the pirate territory, y’know? Still, she’s smart enough not to fuck with me when it _matters_.”

“So, what, she keeps everyone in her back pocket until she needs them?” 

Jack looked happy at the revelation, clapping Rhys on the shoulder as though Rhys were a prodigy he was particularly proud of. “Hey! There’s hope for you yet, Rhysie.”

“Again, I didn’t get to where I am by being an idiot,” Rhys snarled, aware that he was having trouble adjusting from being exalted, to being treated like a kid who had finally learned to color in the lines. 

“Sure,” Jack agreed, but it was dripping in sarcasm. “You’ve got the brains, yeah, but let’s see how you hold up on the front lines, then we’ll talk about respect. You realize we’re walking into a fight, kid, right?”

“I can handle it,” Rhys declared. “What I _can’t_ handle is the sound of your voice, so let’s stuff it before we alert the whole camp that we’re coming.”

Jack only grinned. Rhys wasn’t sure if this excitable, fight-mongering Jack was any better than the sullen, fearful thing that had kicked him out of his office. Neither seemed preferable, but there was something addicting about the consistency of depth in his moods. The emotions were high, sure, but they were _there,_ which was a startling revelation. He’d half expected Jack to be an unfeeling, corporate bastard, taking what he wanted, not out of malice or greed, but indifference. Jack was as much a victim to his own emotions as anyone else -- he just had the power to create more turmoil or idolization because of them. 

Eventually, the camp loomed closer, and the Hyperion soldiers began to peel off to flank the far walls. Luckily, most of the pirates were buried in rum bottles or having ridiculous cutlass-juggling contests, so none of them seemed to notice the men slipping past the gaps to quickly surround the bottom curve of the encampment. 

Rhys stayed dead center with Jack, unholstering his Aries and pressing his back against the corrugated metal that made up one of the larger perimeter shacks. His heart was hammering as he came to terms with what was about to happen, and he hated that Fiona wasn’t there with him. She was his foundation, his support beam, and being in a dangerous situation without her felt like going in completely blind and alone. 

To distract himself, he carefully peered around the corner of the shack, looking towards the entrance of the Atlas facility. He’d already figured that the pirates had taken out the turrets in order to have set up camp so close to the entrance, but he wasn’t expecting to find the heavily barricaded doorway completely blown apart. 

His gut churned horribly as he took in the singe marks that outlined the massive hole through the front of his (inherited) facility. They had gotten inside. How far could they have breached through Atlas’s security? How much was damaged? 

How many more were inside?

“They’re in the facility,” he breathed to Jack, bracing himself once again against the metal. “Door’s been busted open.”

“Fuck,” Jack cursed silently. “Better hope your matrix hasn’t been turned into a spit-roast, pumpkin.” He pressed a finger to his ear, talking lowly to his soldiers. “On my mark. I’ve got eyes on the big idiot in charge, so find your own head. No shrapnel grenades, homing _only,_  and make sure your buddy isn’t in the detonation range. I can’t afford to lose a gun.”

He turned the transmitter off, and looked at Rhys. “There’s a captain in the middle, standing off by the fire, carrying a harpoon. The big guy. Can you take down that shield he has with your Eye?”

Rhys chanced another look around the corner, spotting the enemy easily. He towered above the other sand pirates and had adorned his body armor in a slew of spikes. His shield would be easy enough to overload with the same program Rhys had designed to take down Roland. He nodded. 

“Good,” Jack breathed, and Rhys could feel him practically _vibrating_ with energy as he checked the mag on his Hyperion SMG, which was lovingly adorned in unique scribbles, including a kill count scratched into the side, and graffiti crudely spelling out _Bitch._  “You do that, then get back behind me. Use that transfusion gun if you have to, but otherwise stay out of sight. I can’t slaughter these assholes if I’m worried about you getting us _both_ killed.”

Rhys relayed his understanding, and didn’t argue. There would be no use. Jack would sooner knock him unconscious and toss him in the dirt before he’d let Rhys run around in a camp full of murderers. Besides, Rhys was definitely off-kilter in Fiona’s absence, and he wasn’t sure how useful he’d be anyway.  

He focused his Eye on the blumbering harpooner who was idly poking at a fire, called up the program, and fried the shield without any further hesitation. 

The world erupted around him. 

The harpooner bellowed, a horrible, awful sound that harkened back to times when battle cries were a common thing, and threw his hand over his eyes where the static feedback from the busted shield had sparked up into his face. Instantly, bullets began tearing their way through the camp from every direction, including a few from Jack that sliced their way through the harpooner’s neck, silencing him in a spurt of arterial blood. 

The pirates were a frenzy of activity at the sudden onslaught of Hyperion soldiers, rolling and tumbling behind cover and grabbing whatever weapon was closest to them. Bullets whizzed into the dunes that supported the camp, throwing up geysers of sand that spouted three feet high, or tore holes through the flimsy wood and metal of the shantytown walls. The sound was unbearable, and the firing of so many guns sounded like a thunderstorm twelves times over, like the wrath of God had descended upon them, nothing but sound and blood and desolate fury. 

Rhys moved to the further end of the wall as a bullet came too close and pelted him with sand. Jack was snarling from the other side, firing round after round into any pirate that came too close, dodging frequently, his lips moving as he counted shots. Everything was happening too quickly, and all Rhys could do was repeat the mantra _“Stay alive!”_ in his head as bandits shrieked in pain on the other side of the shack, howling about sand empires and blood water. It was a cacophony of noise, screams and wild nonsense, Jack shouting orders, the whizz of bullets and the splintering of wood. The soft sound of flesh being imbedded with lead, the desperate gurgle that followed. 

He heard an engineer shout, realizing far too late in his disorientation that he was warning the Hyperion entourage of a grenade, but Rhys had no time to brace himself. The explosion shook the ground beneath their feet, and the force shot several of the pirates back into the walls of their shacks. Rhys could hear a few of them crumple, the disintegrated wood helpless against two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. 

Rhys shielded his eyes as sand flew up like a confetti storm, and a body tumbled past the perimeter line of the shantytown to sprawl to a stop just a few meters from him. To Rhys’s horror, the pirate wasn’t dead, and picked himself up with a dazed expression, like he’d walked into his own surprise party. Rhys’ position was exposed, and the pirate’s mouth curved upwards in glee as his eyes tracked to him, all previous battles forgotten. Rhys could see the madness in his yellowed eyes, the remorseless need to live in the chaotic _present,_ mentally incapable of seeing a future or a past. 

The pirate raked his grimy fingernails down his own face, leaving angry red marks and tiny rivets of blood, as though encased in his own agony. 

“I’ll ride you like a sandskift!” The pirate howled at him, cradling his head. “Sail the sandy seas! Take a dip! Take a dip!” 

The pirate lunged forward, and some instinctual part of Rhys took over, the part Fiona and Sasha had conditioned in him to be able to survive. Time slowed, allowing him a miniscule moment to focus, to react as he’d been trained to.

 _Don’t use your gun if you can help it,_ Fiona had advised. _Ammo is scarce. That stupid revolver you have only carries six shots._

He moved backwards to avoid the pirate’s grasp, his feet kicking up more sand as he went, and thrust his hand behind him, looking for Jack’s leg. Upon making contact, he ran his hand down it and unsheathed the knife Jack kept in his boot, in just enough time for the pirate to bear down upon him, fingers wide and greedy, like he was ready to tear Rhys apart with nothing but those bloody, broken fingernails. 

Rhys held up his cybernetic arm to protect himself from the brunt of the pirate’s fall, and used the superior strength to grab hold of the maddened thing’s neck and keep it at a distance. He could hear Jack turning behind him, the “ _What the fuck--,”_ escaping in a fury of words, but Rhys was focused now, and his fear had dissipated. Fiona would expect better from him, and he’d been in far worse positions than this. 

 _“Look_ into my eyes!” The pirate wailed as he thrashed in Rhys grip. “Bring me to the slaughter! The endless ocean--!” 

Rhys drove the knife into the pirate’s abdomen, hearing the thing interrupt it’s own inanity with a cry of surprise and fascination. With a hard yank, Rhys pulled it back out, watching as small granules of flying sand stuck to the blood on the blade. Before he could think about the brutality, he drove the knife back in, and out, and in again, trying to hit as many vital organs as he could with each satisfying, disgusting slide of blade into flesh. 

The pirate’s hands clawed uselessly at his arms, but the frantic energy was flagging, and the gurgles became soft hiccups, until they were nothing more than sporadic twitches of dying nerves. Rhys tossed the body to the ground carelessly, desperate to get the oozing thing away from him, and turned to find Jack watching him with wide, hungry eyes. 

Rhys said nothing, but instead reached down and wiped the blood from the knife off on the thigh of Jack’s pants before resheathing it. Jack didn’t seem bothered in the slightest; rather, something wild flashed across his expression, the firefight raging behind their shack a secondary concern. 

“Pretty boy _can_ hold his own,” Jack grinned, shaking off the shock, and it was _predatory._ If it were any other circumstance, Rhys would be half-convinced that Jack was the next maddened thing he’d have to drive a knife into with the way his eyes gleamed. 

Rhys pulled his Aries from it’s holster, secretly thrilled that his hands weren’t shaking. The shock hadn’t hit him yet. Good. He opened his mouth to tell Jack to focus, but was cut off by an inhumane, bone-shattering roar of rage. 

“ **Stop** . **_SHOUTING_ **!”

The deep, heavy voice rang out across the camp, coupled with the horrible sound of slow, thundering footsteps exiting the Atlas entrance. Whatever was coming out to join in the fray, it had to weigh a _ton_ to make that kind of noise while walking. 

 _“Fuck!”_   Jack cursed quietly. “It’s an Anchorman. Stay down, Rhys, seriously.”

The fact that Jack used his name and not some ridiculous title or modifier was enough to relay the danger of this new threat. Rhys figured the term “Anchorman” should instill some kind of terror in him, and his ignorance of Wurmwater residents was starting to be a problem. 

The Hyperion soldiers began firing in earnest, and Rhys could hear their bullets pinging and denting hard against this new growling, menacing thing. 

“Shield?” Rhys asked, struggling to be heard over the roar of battle. 

Jack shook his head. “Armor. And two big fucking anchors. Don’t get within range.”

Rhys swallowed thickly at the thought of being swung at with an anchor that was hand wielded by a mutant human bordering on four hundred pounds. The only enemy Rhys had personally come across that came close to that size was a skag, and they were stupid animals - easy to predict, and easy to counter. 

As if on cue, another thundering footfall was swallowed by the sound of rage incarnate, a sick, mutated bellow. Something whirred repetitively through the air like the world’s fastest, most unstable ceiling fan, and Rhys felt his stomach sink as he realized it was a fucking _anchor_ being swung around like a lasso.

Chains jangled, the air disoriented, and Rhys flinched as the sound of a Hyperion soldier being _gutted_ filled the air. But the carnage didn’t stop, and Rhys only had a fraction of a second to realize Jack was shouting something at him before the shack they were taking cover behind exploded on top of them. 

Rhys flew backwards in the sand, his organic vision whited out, and pain engulfed him. Sounds became muted, fishbowl vibrations that felt as though they reverberated through his brain rather than reaching his eardrums. He looked around blearily, spotting the lower half of the Hyperion body that had been flung into their shack, toppling it. There was viscera smeared across one of the corrugated panels, and the arm still holding a rifle was a few feet away, like someone had dumped out all the parts of a person onto a table, determined to build their own human. 

Jack was pulling him up, his hand in a death grip around Rhys' arm as he tugged, and Rhys shook his head as he stood, trying to focus. Jack’s mask was always white, but now it was contorted in concern. He was caked in rubble and sand, streams of it falling from the creases in his clothes as he moved, and his free hand was pressed hard against a bleeding wound above his hip. 

Rhys stumbled his first few footsteps, his head still swimming and his legs not connecting properly to his brain. He could barely feel the ground beneath him, like adrenaline was keeping him afloat, keeping him from feeling. 

“Let’s _go,_ ” Jack hissed, his eyes never straying from whatever they held in the distance behind Rhys. “Come on, _go go go go--_ ”

Rhys was up and running, following Jack’s lead a solid thirty meters away from their crumpled barricade. Rhys could still hear the Anchorman roaring his inane babble _much_ too close behind them, still swinging his hooks at the Hyperion soldiers who were peppering bullets at him. Jack stumbled in front of him from the badly distributed weight of the SMG on his back, his hand gripping the wound on his side, and Rhys took initiative, dragging them into a crude hut that had its doorway blasted off. 

“In,” Rhys breathed, shoving Jack roughly through the open doorway and backing him into a corner. Packages of Dahl MREs littered the ground, along with empty boxes of shells and print-outs advertising Moxxi sponsored games and Pangolin shields, which Rhys nearly slipped on. The battle continued around them, sounds of screaming pirates, cuttlasses swinging, bullets ripping through huts. “You have a hypo?”

Jack fell back on the support of the wall, his breathing heavy. He opened up one of the pockets in his jacket to reveal a leaking, luminescent red substance - a broken hypo. 

“Fuck,” Jack cursed, throwing his head back. “Fragile, piece of shit ‘juvies. Tim has my good ones--”

A sound like the crack of thunder followed by a roar of pain singalled one of Tim’s sniper shots making contact. Rhys turned too quickly, alarmed by the sound, and felt agony pierce through his abdomen. He cursed through the pain, panicking, and lifted up his shirt to reveal… nothing. There was a steady smattering of bruises across his skin, but nothing that would explain the sensation of being torn open. 

Something clicked in Rhys's brain, which was operating only on staying alive -- on quick, situational analysis. He had forgotten why they were here. What he needed. _Why_ he needed it. 

“How bad is it?” He croaked to Jack, who shot him an annoyed glance. 

“What?”

“It fucking _hurts,_ Jack, how bad is it?”

Jack _finally_ came to the same conclusion, eyes trailing down to Rhys un-sliced skin, and back to his own hand, which was still covering the leaking cut. 

“Bad,” he answered finally, and if he felt any remorse that Rhys could feel his pain, he didn’t show it. “The fucking sheet metal smashed my shield and went through me. We need a hypo. I’m… _we’re_ not going far without it.”

Rhys cursed and bit his lip, thinking. A grenade went off in the distance, allowing sand from the roof to rain down through the holes of the battered fabric that comprised their ceiling. The urgency to act was pressing in on him from all sides, but he didn’t know how to heal Jack. He never carried hypos on his person. He’d never needed them. All firefights he’d been involved in were meticulously planned out beforehand, and his team had always been given only the finest gear available. One Atlas shield was worth ten of Hyperion’s. And at least _fifty_ of whatever hodgepodge, scavenged crap these bandits had. 

“Stay down,” Rhys ordered, a stupid plan coming to fruition in his head. Theoretically, it would work. If he could suffer the consequences of Jack’s injury, surely the same concept applied to rejuvenation, right?

“Rhys, you fucking idiot, _wait--”_

But Rhys was already positioning himself by the doorframe, revolver in hand. He double-checked to make sure his Omega shield was still fully functioning, and braced himself. He could feel Jack coming closer to argue, but the injured CEO gave up quickly, sliding down to sit by Rhys feet instead, weak curses slipping from his mouth. Jack’s hands were coated red, and Rhys knew he must have nicked some artery to get that kind of blood loss.  

He felt lightheaded from Jack’s condition. His phantom wound _throbbed._ But he wasn’t ready to die like this, especially not when the injury wasn’t even his own. What a humiliating death that would be, he thought distantly; the girls would be _furious_ with him.

He stepped out as much as he dared to get a line on whatever pirate was closest, but one of them must have been watching their frenzied getaway, and Rhys took fire almost instantly. His shield flashed violently, warning him of damage, but he had to take a shot while he had a chance. 

The pirate closest was turned away from them, oblivious, going through a dead soldier’s pockets like the ground wasn’t still shaking in the midst of battle. Rhys steadied his aim as best he could, his Eye helping him align the shot while his shield started beeping petulantly at him. He fired once, twice, absorbing the force of the shot and refusing to let the recoil burden his arm. The pirate went down with a jerk, toppling sideways immediately, and Rhys waited just long enough for the transfusion technology to consume what it could from the body and deliver it back to Rhys. 

That telltale tingling affect signified success, and Rhys jerked back into cover just before his shield broke. Some of the weariness and nausea associated with blood loss began to fade, and he reached down, jerking up Jack’s shirt to examine the deep cut. As he watched, the edges began to close, stitching themselves back together just like they would if Rhys had jabbed a rejuvenator between Jack’s ribs. 

He breathed out a laugh. “It’s working, Jack. This ‘sharing’ shit isn’t so bad, sometimes. One more transfusion should do it. Stay still.”

Jack was watching him, but his face was blank, and Rhys was too distracted by his undertaking to focus on what that might mean. He went under fire again, allowing his recharged shield to take the brunt of the damage, and tried to find another victim. 

The Anchorman was nearly dead in the distance. Hyperion had weathered him down, but he’d taken his slew of bodies with him, trailing behind him like a blood-soaked breadcrumb path that would lead the Anchorman back home, once everyone was dead. He only had one anchor left, but the loss seemed to only enrage the beast, and he was swinging more violently than ever, allowing his heavy, impervious armor to soak up almost every bullet Hyperion threw at him. 

A pirate was standing on top of a small boulder, a cutlass in his hands as he shrieked and screamed in support of the Anchorman. A tiny cheerleader, insignificant in the sprawling chaos of yet another Borderlands showdown. Rhys took him out, sending another two bullets through his wiry body - a shock primary to fry the shield, and a secondary transfusion to finish him off. The reward sped back to Rhys quickly, jolting him with another hit of rejuvenator, and all remaining pain was gone, pulled from him like poison from a wound. 

Before he could celebrate the significant win, the pirate who had been tracking them came barreling out of his cover, shouting unintelligible lunacy as he tripped and stumbled his way across the camp towards them. He took a few shots with some shitty Tediore pistol, and Rhys’s already sapped shield broke, forcing him back into the cover of the shack. 

The pirate showed no signs of slowing, if the closing distance of the screams were anything to go by, and Rhys’s shield was fast, but it wouldn’t recharge in the final seconds he had before that pirate burst through the doorway with pistol and cutlass in hand. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, grateful to hear Sasha’s words permeate his doubts and his fears. 

 _“You won’t always have a weapon,”_ she advised, always ready to brawl with her fists and bad attitude. _“In fact, you’re fucking lucky if you do. If you’re a foot away from someone, then I’d rather be the smart guy who knows how to fight, than the idiot with a gun.”_

Rhys didn’t have time to doubt whether he could do it or not. Jack was just getting to his feet, and Rhys' revolver could be knocked out of his grip easily if the pirate got the drop on him. He didn’t have time to consider whether he was the idiot in this scenario. 

Half a second later, the pirate burst into the room, cutlass raised in a preemptive strike against whoever was in the tent, and Rhys slammed his right elbow into the attacker’s face. Blood spurt out from the pirate’s nose as he staggered backwards, and Rhys took the opportunity of his surprise to grab the pirate’s arm and slam his wrist into the doorframe, breaking it with a vulgar, sickening crunch. The cutlass fell from the pirate’s grip while he screamed in agony and surprise, and while Rhys had him distracted with the pain, he swiped the pistol stuffed in the waistband of the pirate’s pants, pinned the horrible, crazed thing against the wall with his cybernetic, and fired a clean shot through the side of the pirate’s skull. 

Brain matter splattered across the opposite wall with enough force to shake the sheet metal. But before Rhys could register his next move, he was being tugged backwards away from the body, the Tediore falling to the ground like the junky piece of plastic it was. 

“Jack, what--”

But it wasn’t a time for questions, and Rhys figured that out quickly as Jack, fully healed via Rhys’s transfusion, pressed him roughly against the wall of the shack and pinned him. The air between them was charged, electrifying, and Rhys could almost taste the adrenaline that fueled the moment. It pounded in his chest like a caged animal, desperate for release. Jack’s face was predatory, a smear of blood encompassing a hefty bruise across his cheekbone, half hidden by the mask that was very quickly becoming less and less of a place to hide his emotions as those heterochromatic eyes dragged themselves down Rhys's body, and back up to linger on his face. 

Jack wanted him.  Rhys’s own romantic entanglements were, thankfully, short-lived and shallow, but he knew what that greedy hunger of desire looked like. The territorial dilation of the pupils, black that nearly swallowed the irises in an aggressive demonstration of lust. Rhys didn’t consider how he must have looked-- a soft, corporate boy willingly taking fire, doing what he needed to for survival -- it was a drug for a person like Jack. He had admitted as much, warning Rhys not to push his buttons, not to casually invite the attraction of a man half-crazed for the endorphin rush of powerful emotions. Of acting on them. 

But being pressed against the wall by the man he had spent his formative years fawning over satisfied something deep within him. It was something he didn’t give in to very often, worried he’d lose his composition, his _constitution_. But the urgency of staying alive in a world that wanted to literally _eat_ him was jumbling up his priorities, being further propelled by the lives he had taken, the _living_ he’d done, and how Handsome fucking _Jack_ looked like he might even respect him; like Rhys had _impressed_ the notorious king of the badlands. And fuck it all if Jack wasn’t the most attractive thing he’d ever seen, dignity be damned. 

He fisted his hand in Jack’s shirt, and that was all it took. 

Jack bore down on him, kissing Rhys like the COO always imagined he would: like he was picking a fight. Like he had set his sights on something he coveted, and he needed to make a claim. A hand, sticky with Jack’s own blood, ran up the back of his neck to grip the hair there, repositioning Rhys's head to exactly where Jack wanted him. His other hand grabbed Rhys’s ass shamelessly and forced their hips together, and Rhys felt the hard press in Jack’s pants (from adrenaline? Or from Rhys himself? He wondered, half-crazed with the attention, with the _idea_ of being appealing to a man like Jack) just as another thundering clap of Tim’s sniper cracked the atmosphere around them. 

Rhys couldn’t help the small gasp of surprise at the sudden influx of sensory -- too many sounds, sensations, _fight or flight_ \-- and Jack took the opportunity to bite Rhys’s bottom lip and turn the kiss dirty, the swipe of his tongue draining Rhys of most of his brain cells as Jack pulled him ever closer, urging Rhys to grind into the hard line of Jack’s cock through blood-stained denim. The heat between them was almost unbearable, wrapped delicately around the electric sensation that they’d both been avoiding and obsessing about since they’d discovered it. 

“You’re a good shot, pumpkin,” Jack murmured, his voice too low and dark for Rhys to handle as Jack turned to run his lips across the heated skin of Rhys’s neck.

“I cheated,” Rhys answered through bitten lips, exposing his skin for Jack’s intentions, shameless and inviting. “The Eye -- _fuck_ \-- ensures accuracy.”

“The Eye didn’t help you stick a blade in that dipshit’s belly. Didn’t help you disarm that freak in here. You broke his poor little wrist, baby, you were _brutal_.” Jack sounded so _proud_ of him, half-mystified, and he bit down teasingly on the sensitive skin above Rhys’s collarbone. Rhys dug his fingers _hard_ into Jack’s shoulder in response, earning a jerk in Jack’s hips as the CEO continued praising him. “You didn’t even think, just blew his brains right out of his skull.”

“Him or me,” Rhys breathed, pressing his hand against the back of Jack’s head, encouraging him, completely engrossed with feeling Jack harden even more at Rhys’s unabashed invitation. 

A bellowing wail echoed outside of their hut, and a ground-shaking crash followed, but it wasn’t enough to deter their exploration. Several cheers went up from the remaining Hyperion members, and Rhys, in his foggy, distracted brain, figured the Anchorman must be dead. Shots were still being fired, but the frequency was dissipating, signaling the end of the quick, bloody firefight. Rhys wanted to make a note of it, to advise Jack that they make their way into the installation, but Jack’s hands were at the zipper of his pants, his fingers running down--

“What the **_bloody_** hell is going on here?!”

Rhys jerked back like he had been scolded, and Jack sighed into his neck irritably, fingers moving up to grip Rhys’ shoulders, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. 

“ _Fuck_. Whoops.”

“What do you mean, ‘whoops’?” Rhys hissed, tense and alert as he tried to hear more from the mysterious voice from outside the hut. “Who the hell is that?”

“That would be Captain Scarlett,” Jack explained, pushing Rhys away regretfully as he pulled out his Bitch from behind his back. “Aaaaand we might have just killed, like a _whole_ bunch of her crew.” 


	8. hangover ain't a strong enough word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late on posting because I'm an asshole. Sorry. Thank you again for all your incredible comments - I didn't expect this to get the attention it's getting, and I'm truly very staggered.

 

_///_

_Now what you need is silence_   
_And you don't want no one to see you like this_   
_Maybe you don't recognize it_   
_But this is the glasshouse where your life lives_

_///_

 

Felix had taught Fiona and Sasha how to play Rummy when the girls were younger; partially because it was a simple, easy to learn game, and partially, Fiona had figured out later, to teach them about schooling their faces when they would inevitably play higher stakes games as adults. 

They never ended up playing those games though. Turns out Pandorans would rather use the cards as a level surface for test-snorting the various flora, too half-baked from heat and abandonment to remember which mushrooms got them high and which ones killed them. 

And of course, Felix had died before he’d even thought to even teach Fiona poker, which made the whole thing moot anyway. 

So, instead of living out the young Fiona’s dreams of sitting in a smoky room with three poshly dressed men, blindsiding them all with her quick wit and steely feints, she currently found herself grumbling into an ultra-soft pillow in a suite under Hyperion lockdown, playing Rummy with a mecromancing teenager and a man who made up for his unenviable height and nerdy disposition with a--frankly,-- alarming set of chiseled abs. 

“Vaughn, put your shirt on.”

Vaughn was staring intently at his cards, giving what he had been played the focused intensity he gave _every_ hand dealt to him. As though the answer was just out of reach, but it was decidedly _there,_ because there was no other place it could possibly be. 

“Yeah, _Vaughn,_ _”_ Gaige added childishly, popping a bubble of gum. “You’ll give me unrealistic expectations of men.”

Vaughn snorted, moving to pick a card, before second-guessing and pulling his hand back. “You hang around Axton all day, and _I’m_ the unrealistic expectation?”

“Neither of you are an expectation at all, not if the way Angel and her were acting meant anything,” Fiona groused. “Vaughn, seriously, just play your card. My hair is turning gray. My skin is withering away. I’m gaining an interest in politics.”

Gaige perked up, her eyes glimmering in a way that usually meant an eventual clean-up in the private lab that Rhys, stupidly, let her have. “Did she seem interested to you? I mean, this is kind of a new area for me, y’know.”

“What, girls?” Vaughn asked, finally throwing down a humble pair. 

“No, romance,” Gaige answered. “I wrote dad about it already, but I don’t think he’s gotten it yet. We’re pretty far.”

A pulse of fear thudded through Fiona, and she looked up to glare at Gaige. “What exactly did you tell him? You realize all our communications are being monitored, right? If you breathe a _word_ of that girl anywhere outside of this room, Rhys is as good as _dead_ \--”

“Whoa, alright, back up,” Gaige interrupted, looking mildly hurt at Fiona’s tone. “I didn’t tell him details. Just that I had met someone, and I thought I was interested. Asked him to tell me the story about how he and mom met, just, you know, for reference or somethin’.”

Fiona eased back, and her muscles unclenched. She looked at Vaughn for reassurance that she had reacted appropriately, but Vaughn kept his eyes glued to the cards, as he always did when Fiona and Gaige had disagreements. 

Because the thing was, Fiona knew she was difficult to get along with. ‘Abrasive’ had been used more often than not, and it had taken her far longer to come to terms with the Atlas arrangement then Sasha had, despite being the one to agree to it. 

Her sister, for all her hard-ass remarks and fight-mongering, held on to the idea of _belonging_ with an almost sacred grip, and her easy adjustment to their makeshift family had blossomed her into the best version of herself. Sasha’s confidence exploded, and having a new purpose in life had awakened and enkindled something within her, an urge to formulate a relationship with the people that had pulled her out of Hell, to create something that gave her a sense of family far wider than what Fiona could offer her. 

And of course, Axton had followed not long after that, always cautious of the borders she created, but allowing himself to be pulled in through the cracks in her walls, held at bay from the outside world that Sasha had been so wary of. She cherished him, but it remained unspoken. They were _something,_ that much was common knowledge, but neither one of them seemed comfortable with titles, nor publicity. 

But Fiona had trouble with those connections. She had hardened herself at an early age, using her own hopes and dreams as a barricade for her younger sister’s innocence. She had made the big decisions, so the weight of them wouldn’t linger in Sasha’s mind. She had hidden the heartbreak, so her sister could have a shoulder to cry on that wasn’t slouched and hung from sorrow. She had stood tall in the storms, so Sasha could follow in the comfort of her shadow; protected, optimistic, and retaining the light that Fiona had long ago decided to extinguish for their own survival. 

Things had changed with Rhys though, with the stupid boy she’d found half-dead in The Dust. He was as carelessly insouciant as she desired to be, free from the nagging demon known as dependance. He had offered her a way out, a way to change Sasha’s situation without demanding anything from her than what she was already doing to survive, and in that, she begrudgingly began to respect him. Things were difficult at first, and she wanted to bail as soon as the transports landed in the Edens, but Sasha’s face had brightened at the skyline, at the way Rhys assured her she’d have freedom in his employment. Fiona had been shocked stone-still at the way Sasha grinned and pointed at the beauty being offered her, looking towards Fiona as if to ask for permission to _enjoy_ it. 

Fiona couldn’t take that from her. 

And so, they had stayed. They scarfed down meals like they were still terrified they’d be ripped away, and Fiona continued to make unreasonable demands, just to test Rhys’s fortitude. She acted exactly like what she was -- a stray dog, taken in off the streets, growling at the unfamiliar setting and biting every hand that came too close. But Rhys was patient, and rather than secluding them like the animals they were, he demanded their company. He dragged them through Atlas installations, providing tours and letting them examine the prototypes. He _forced_ them to see him as he was, ensuring them that he wasn’t ashamed of them, that he _valued_ them, and when he asked for Fiona’s advice on weapon construction, he listened to her as if she was a colleague.

He didn’t even complain when training began, and Fiona tore into him ruthlessly as an instructor, drilling him with an almost religious zeal. He had snapped back a few times, when long days at work coupled with hours of physical demands began to yank on the strings of his patience, but he still put himself through her imagined scenarios and stances with pure dedication and respect for her prowess.

But the real change came when he let her carry her own gun. They’d been living separately, Fiona and Sasha in the bottom floor of the high rise building that housed Rhys’s condo, as he had accurately predicted their comfort and desire for ground floor accommodations. They were only a few months into their ‘employment,’ and Fiona still had one foot out the door at all times, ready to run when things turned sour, always ensuring that their emergency bag stayed stashed close by. Sasha, on the other hand, was smitten with her new life. She often meandered her way up to Rhys’s living space, completely unapologetic as she invited herself in to take in the stunning views, to admire Rhys's expensive accommodations, and to trail her fingers over his maps, as if she had only a faint remembrance of a past life. 

During one of these trips, Rhys greeted them with a weary but honest smile, accepting of their company even after the sun had long set. Fiona knew they were an annoyance, but she indulged Sasha’s thoughtless behavior, still determined to test Rhys’ merit, to see how long before he cracked. Because they always cracked. Previous allies, their fake smiles would ground their teeth so hard Fiona could almost see the moment something snapped and broke, and the sisters would cease to be worth the trouble. 

“I’m glad you’re here, actually. I have something for you,” Rhys had mumbled, his tired eyes still shining with poorly disguised mischief. Sasha was fiddling in his fridge, using the touch-activated pad on the front to order whatever things she wanted to be available for herself the next time she dropped by unexpectedly. 

Fiona had only stared at him, unimpressed. He was a disheveled mess, having just flown back in from a convention on Eden-6. The threshold of his door was a portal into a new world, something that instantly warped Rhys from an immaculate, well dressed Director to something akin to a university student who survived solely off of energy drinks and delivery. His silk shirt was untucked, trailing over his fitted pants forlornly, and his normally styled hair was flopping across his forehead as if exhausted. 

Fiona hated it, but the sight prodded her heart. Once Rhys was out of his condo, he was pristine. He was _perfect._ But here, in the space he designated as his own, he was unrecognizable. Here, he wore pajama pants with a hole in the knee, and listened to embarrassing music as he tried his hand at making food for them rather than ordering out. Here, he was open, flawed, and honest, and Fiona knew it was Rhys offering up his trust in exchange for her loyalty, something that was considered a fair trade in their lines of work. 

He led her to the table, where a striking black case waited like the centerpiece of a black market deal. Fiona felt her heart thud in her chest, but she stuffed it down and tried to remain impassive, looking down at Rhys’s stupid mismatched socks to remind herself how ridiculous and unpredictable this whole arrangement was. 

“Remember when I asked you what you would have favored, if you were back on Pandora?” Rhys questioned, unhitching the locks. “What kind of weapon would be most useful, what would ensure you had protection from any threat?”

Fiona scoffed, crossing her arms. “Yeah, and I’m pretty sure I told you ‘one of everything.’”

“You did,” Rhys agreed, laughing lightly. “And you’re an asshole, because you know I can’t do that. But I hope this is a fair alternative.”

He opened the case, and Fiona had tried her damndest not to twitch her fingers in excitement. There was a revolver inside, lovingly surrounded by breathable stuffing in a perforated cut out, and it was _perfect._ Straight out of her dreams. A small switch next to the safety corresponded to a dense block of color - red, green, and blue, and in the black of the barrel, a luminescent red script spelled out her name in clear, unapologetic ownership. 

“Whoa,” she breathed, because gratitude was Sasha’s thing, and Fiona had trouble summoning words when she couldn’t find anything negative to say. 

“I tried to give you anything you might need in one weapon. It’s new tech, but I’ve had it tested in every condition imaginable, even ones only _you_ could get yourself into. That switch there, next to the grip, that’ll give you either incendiary, caustic, or shock output, but the default is explosive.”

He said nothing as she ran her fingers across it, so Fiona took it as silent permission to pull it out and test the weight in her hands. It was lighter than the old Jakobs revolvers she had pillaged and repurposed, but it felt good in her hands. Like she had been waiting for it. Like it had been waiting for _her._

“It’s got less recoil than what you’re probably used to, but it it’s determinantal, I can have it altered. I’ll change anything you don’t like about it.” He paused, and when Fiona remained silent, turning the revolver over in her fingers as though she couldn’t understand, his voice became softer. “I named it the Chimera. An old Greek legend, a creature of infamy. A she-demon hybrid, combined into a whole that was better than any of her individual parts. The sight of her was said to be an omen of disaster to anyone who got in her way.”

Something caught in Fiona’s throat at his calm, steady words. They were offhand comments to anyone who might overhear them, a creator’s boastfulness, but Fiona had long learned to recognize the duality of meaning when someone spoke. Rhys wasn’t blind to her struggle, nor to what her past had deemed for her going forward, and this was his way of accepting her for the bitter, broken woman she was while still encouraging her to embrace a new future. 

She tried to speak, and had to swallow heavily first. “Can I…”

“Bullets are in the side of the case there,” Rhys said, cutting off the words she’d rather not say. Another save, another acceptance. “I’m going to have you come in tomorrow and meet with one of my guys who will design you whatever holster you want, but for now, you’ll just have to carry it around with you.”

Her grip tightened at yet another embarrassing question she wouldn’t have to voice. Damn Rhys. Damn his ability to understand without demeaning her in the process. To place her on a pedestal that only _she_ could see, while keeping his back turned to any hints of his own involvement. 

Sasha padded up behind them, her fingers dug deep into those awful, healthy organic chips Rhys kept on hand. “Oooo,” she marveled, looking over Fiona’s shoulder to study the revolver. “That’s nice as hell, Fi. What do I get?” She asked, reeling suddenly on Rhys. 

Rhys grinned at her, adopting an entirely different attitude to deal with an entirely different sister. It wasn’t about being fake though, Fiona understood that much. It was about giving them their own personal comforts, being what they needed by highlighting certain parts of his own personality, and tampering down others. 

“I’ve got a lineup of prototypes for you to look at tomorrow. You get first pick. There’s an SMG I’ve dubbed Silver that I think you’ll be particularly fond of.”

Sasha grinned in excitement, demanding more explanation from Rhys about the tech, how new the products were, and how much the item was worth. Whether she’d be envied for it. She wasn’t the slightest bit jealous that Fiona had gotten a custom piece, because that’s wasn’t how Sasha operated. Being denied the finer things in life had her grasping for the luxury, the one thing she’d never found on Pandora. For Fiona, though, money was only as big of an issue as whether or not it kept them fed, sheltered, and alive. 

No, Fiona wanted appreciation. She wanted an identity, to be useful and cherished for something that didn’t involve keeping Sasha on the world’s shortest leash. 

Rhys purposefully steered Sasha into the kitchen, babbling about the new line up, discreetly giving Fiona a chance to wipe her eyes before her sister could see. 

Things had changed, then, and she began to see Rhys in a new light. Slowly, she started inching her foot out of the proverbial door, and her emergency get away bag began to collect dust. 

And they changed again, two years later, when Rhys awkwardly introduced them to a sixteen year old nutjob who had, apparently, accidentally murdered her schoolmate during a science fair. 

Something about anti-bullying programming, and a brat named Marcie who took things too far. The girl who stood behind Rhys had made a homemade “Deathtrap” which evidently fixed “Gaige”’s pint-sized nuisance by shredding Marcie to literal pieces across the school auditorium. 

At least, that’s what Fiona had gotten as she stared bitterly at Rhys, who, she was certain, had lost his goddamn mind. 

“She’s going to be my ward, for a bit,” Rhys explained haphazardly, his tie askew from what had been a seemingly busy morning. “Had to pull some strings in court, dump out about a half a cup of bullshit concerning hijacked tech to keep her out of juvenile prison, but she’s got talent, and I want to ensure she can keep creating. She’s forsaken her rights as a citizen until she turns twenty-five, and then she can appeal to the courts to grant it again. But for now, as long as she stays with me, she’s safe.”

The girl was distracted, playing a game on her ECHO and bouncing her foot, as though she hadn’t just horrifically uprooted two families in her attempt to show off. Fiona glared at her over Rhys’s back. 

“And why do _I_ have to get her set up?”

But Rhys was checking the time, his attention wavering, and Fiona already knew the answer. 

“Look, I’ve got a meeting with External Usability in thirty minutes that I really can’t miss. And I still have to compile that data we got from Isolus--”

Fiona looked over his shoulder again, worriedly. Their treks out to Vaults weren’t exactly _illegal,_ not when Rhys privately funded them, but she still got an anxious clench in her gut whenever he spoke of them so casually. 

“Fiona, please. You’re the only person I trust to watch out for her.”

His two eyes, still organic then, had grown big and sappy as he pleaded silently, and she sneered at him. 

“Knock it off, okay? Christ. I’ll get her set up, organize a place, yadda yadda. I’ll send everything to you so you can approve it.”

“No need,” Rhys said, tapping a few buttons on his touch interfaced ECHO. “I’ve given you temporary clearance to make decisions on my behalf. I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Fiona standing there in considerable shock at the authority she’d just been given. She was almost touched. Almost. Right up until the girl--Gaige--turned off her game and gave Fiona a withering look. 

“So, you’re like, his assistant, or what?”

“I’m _not,_ _”_ she snarled back, “And I’m not your mother, either, so don’t start thinking we’re on casual terms, little girl.”

It hadn’t really gotten better, per say. 

Over time, Fiona struggled to draw the lines in her relationship with Gaige. Try as she might, her constant presence in Gaige’s life had cemented her into something of a mentor for the girl. Gaige sought Fiona’s approval, and to retaliate against having that kind of responsibility, Fiona was considerably harder on her than she needed to be. But with Gaige’s hormones reeking havoc on her ability to bite her tongue, and Fiona’s desperate attempt to stop seeing Gaige as younger Sasha, they clashed viciously. 

And then, there were times like this, gathered around a table playing Rummy, where Fiona was suddenly terrified that Gaige had done something that would put her in a firing line, she panicked, and lashed out. Part of her found the betrayed, regretful look that it wrought from Gaige’s otherwise fierce and blatant determinism almost too much to bare. 

Sometimes, she hated being ‘abrasive,’ despite how well it had kept them alive for so long.

“Sorry,” she admitted finally, and even the apology she managed to tear from her lips sounded too rough around the edges. “I’m just--” 

“It’s fine,” Gaige interrupted, tossing down two cards of her own. “You’re worried, and I don’t think before I act. I deserved that.”

Fiona chewed her lip, uncomfortably aware that this was a prime opportunity to reassure Gaige of her value, of her importance. That’s what family would do. But Fiona couldn’t bring herself to say something generic about how “mistakes were part of learning,” because where she came from, mistakes got you killed. You either buckled down, or you were ripped apart. And here in Hyperion space, Gaige didn’t need false confidence, she needed a reality check. She needed to think like a competent adult if they were going to get out of there alive. 

“Just run all transpondance through through myself or Vaughn before you send it out, alright?” she warned, aware of how unkind she sounded as she moved a few cards around in her hand. “Hyperion are bastards and they don’t need the excuse, but let’s not give them one regardless.”

“They’re not _all_ bad,” Vaughn argued, uninterested in being a buffer for Fiona and Gaige’s struggles. “Angel’s decent. I’ve heard that Blake guy even gives Hyperion targets a heads up, lets them turn tail before those creepy assassins get to them.”

“That double seems okay,” Gaige added, trying to sneak a peek at Vaughn’s cards. “Fi said he was the one that gave Axton that juvie, for his busted up ribs.”

Fiona scoffed, eager to dismiss the idea that _any_ of Hyperion lackeys were arguably good people. “One nice thing doesn’t undo a lifetime of dickishness. Besides, you should’ve heard the way he was talking to Ax before that, when Rhys was getting data. _Complete_ asshole.”

Vaughn picked up a card, grumbling. The stack in his hand was considerably larger than Fiona’s or Gaige’s. “I guess. Still, he was being watched then, wasn't he? By Jack? If he’s on duty like that, pretending to be the big man, being a dick kind of comes with the job description. Jack probably wasn’t watching Tim when he gave Ax that juvie.” He picked up another card, sighing. “...Makes you wonder who he is, really.”

Fiona didn’t respond. She didn’t have an argument. 

Instead, she watched Vaughn lose spectacularly at Rummy, watched Gaige regain the light behind her eyes as she laughed, and watched as Axton and Sasha rejoined them in the room. Sasha’s eyes were tinged with red, and Fiona knew she had been letting her fears and frustrations at being chained down loosen her tongue, knowing that Axton would be there to whisper words of comfort, to pull her back together. 

She thought of Rhys, planetside on Pandora and on the leash of the most ruthless man she had ever known. Possibly already dead. And when that hurt too much, she thought of Tim, the man who wore a mask he didn’t need, and who had looked, for just a small moment, as though he held his own humanity like a burden on his shoulders. 

She hated Sasha’s tears. But, at least she understood them. 

 

 

///

 

When Rhys exited the hut after Jack, his adrenaline had faded significantly, and the camp around him that had seemed so chaotic and vast was now just a smoldering pile of rubbish and bodies. The smell of scattered guts was faint, but if left in the sun like this, the whole place would be a revolting stench of decay before nightfall. 

But more pressingly were the the remaining Hyperion soldiers, who were all aiming their rifles at a clean, glossy sandskift that had rolled up the very center of the camp in a blatant show of intimidation and superiority. On the bow of the hovercraft stood a petulant woman who, despite the hook-hand, peg-leg, and hoops thrust in her tri-pointed hat, ears, and lip, looked remarkably soft for Pandora. Her bright red, wind-swept hair was pinned off to the side, and her one good eye glared at the soldiers from behind heavy black eyeliner, as if she was painfully annoyed at being at the end of so many barrels. She was fiercely beautiful, and Rhys was instantly cowed. 

“God, she’s gorgeous,” Rhys breathed as they began making their way over towards the confusion. 

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Jack said back, before pausing, an expression of disturbance flashing across his features. “This is weird. I don’t know if we have the same tastes in women, or if one of us is reading the other one’s brain...stuff.”

“The former,” Rhys admitted, thinking of how enraptured he’d been when he first laid eyes on Fiona and Sasha. Fortunately, the sisters had seen Rhys as something to be adopted, and Rhys very quickly started considering them family rather than prospects. It wasn’t a loss to him, as he tended to screw up romantic affairs by putting his company first, and he couldn’t stomach the thought of pushing away his girls due to his own commitment ineptitude.

“Right,” Jack agreed, accurately reading Rhys’s admittance. “Those Pandoran locals you have trailing after you, Hat Girl and Dread-Head. Both super hot. You ever--?”

“No,” Rhys shot down instantly, his back stiffening. “And neither will you, or I’ll fucking kill you, Jack.”

To his surprise (or maybe not, really), Jack smirked at him with heat dancing in his vision. “Oh, I believe you, Rhysie. Threaten me again, and I’ll _drag_ you back to that hut.”

Rhys flushed, his dignity reasserting itself now that he was out in the open and the fire in his veins had cooled somewhat. He was desperately trying not to focus on that shared moment, but his dick was still having trouble accepting that it was over, and Jack wasn’t trying to hide the way he stared at him, as though he was ready to leisurely pick Rhys apart. 

They approached the woman together, and her head snapped in their direction as Jack instructed Hyperion to lower their weapons. 

“Handsome _Jack_ _!”_ she accused, as if she had suspected him all along, but was playing up an audience. “What the _hell_ are you doing, killing my crew?!”

She had a strange accent, one Rhys hadn’t heard before. A soft inclination on particular words that had Rhys instantly fascinated. It made her even _more_ alluring and exotic, if that were possible.

“Scarlett, sweetheart,” Jack crooned, making an overzealous and impractical bow. “You know how this works. If they’re in my way, I move them. _You_ should know better than to park them outside a historical landmark like this,” he chastised.

Scarlett chewed her blood-red lip, as though unwilling to take the fall for such idiocy. “Oh, all right then, full honesty?”

“As always,” Jack assured her, dripping with charisma. 

“These aren’t my men,” Scarlett admitted, idly flapping a hand at the slain pirates. “They’re deserters, really, and I’m just a tad miffed that you killed them before I could get here and do away with them myself.”

“Hell of a thing to miss out on,” Jack scoffed, all pretenses of being polite forgotten as easily as they came. “Can I make it up to you? Drinks? Dinner?”

“Hush, hush, all in good time,” she dismissed, as her eyes had fallen on Rhys, and her attention was clearly straying. She hopped gracefully off of the sandskift, her various hoops jingling like a snake’s warning rattle. “Why don’t you introduce me to your friend, here? Haven’t seen him around. Did you finally replace that old, stuffy bugger Mr. Blake?”

Rhys held out his hand, desperately hoping that the flush in his neck was gone, and that the blood and debris on his once-pristine outfit made him seem intimidating and powerful, rather than looking like he got knocked around by bandits for fun. 

“Rhys Northcutt, ma’am. Chief Operations Officer for the Atlas Corporation.”

Her striking blue eye went wide, and she took Rhys’s hand in both of her gloved ones. Her fingernails were painted a deep black, an intentional feminine dichotomy against her ruthless occupation. “ _Atlas!"_  she gasped lowly. "Now _there’s_ a doozy of a name! Thought you lot were wiped out?”

“We don’t operate locally any more,” Rhys explained, a wild thrill going through him at this beautiful woman’s enthrallment with his company. “We’re based out of the Edens, and have had a considerable change in management.”

“I’ve got one of your Hydra’s in a lockbox back on my ship,” she whispered to him conspiratorially, leaning in just enough for Rhys to get a scent of the _wild_ on her. “It’s my pride and joy, an absolutely _splendid_ piece of carnage.”

While Rhys had nothing to do with the design of that old, outdated shotgun, he couldn’t ignore the rush of pride that flooded his system. Scarlett enjoyed Atlas’s work. Whatever calm Jack was reacting to the situation with _now,_ it didn’t change how intimidated he’d been back in the hut when he’d realized she was outside, awaiting confrontation. As someone well-versed in dealing with the locals, maybe Jack could diffuse this situation. Maybe not. But Rhys didn’t spend a decade negotiating contracts and selling his company to _not_ utilize his experience whenever possible. 

“Always a pleasure to discover that Atlas treasures have fallen into appreciative hands,” he grinned, all corporate flow and grace. “Perhaps I could offer a reimbursement for taking your revenge away from you? I don’t often do custom items, but for you, I’d _beg_ for the exception.”

“Oooo,” Scarlett smiled at him, flashing dazzling white teeth. “You’re a sweet talker, aren’t ya? Shame I like my men with a bit more meat on them, or I’d snatch you _right_ out of Jack’s clutches. Now, what are you offering there, then?”

Rhys looked her over, albeit respectfully. He needed to read this woman correctly and offer her what she _wanted,_ rather than what she needed. 

“You’re a collector of the unique,” he deduced quickly. “That pistol you have is a Jakobs, but it outputs incendiary damage. _Very,_ very rare to find an elemental Jakobs, especially out here. I’m assuming you’re attached to it, and don’t want a replacement?”

“Right you are,” Scarlett answered brightly, running the tips of her fingers across a pistol that was, clearly, very beloved. She looked as though she was very much enjoying being evaluated, like Rhys was opening little gifts that showcased her charming idiosyncrasies, and laying them out for everyone to appreciate. She watched Rhys assess her with a delightful gleam in her eyes, all while Jack stayed uncharacteristically silent, studying the proceedings. 

Rhys looked her over again, secretly thrilled at being put in the spotlight. It was where he thrived, and playing second fiddle to Jack’s tumultuous mood swings for the past week went against his nature and routine. 

“And an independent, self-made woman like yourself wouldn’t want to be burdened with anything you could potentially lose control of, so a cybernetic to replace that hook is also off the board.”

“Oh, he’s very good,” Scarlett gushed to Jack, affirming Rhys’s judgement. “Wherever did you find him?”

“He’s a little bastard,” Jack answered smoothly, but it held no heat, and his eyes were shining mischievously. “Don’t let him fool you.”

Scarlett just grinned, motioning for Rhys to continue. “Go on, then. Keep fooling me, love.”

Rhys considered. This was a woman who had made a living avoiding death long enough to be idolized for it. To build a following strong enough that she could have an army of bullet sponges to protect her, though that kind of safety was finicky, and unreliable, especially if desertion like this was common. She needed something that would ensure her safety, as pirates were notorious liars, and her trust in her crew was likely far less secure than she’d be willing to brag about. 

Shields were useful, but they were just as vulnerable as anything else. Scarlett needed something that could get her _away_ from an unwanted interaction, rather than just being protected from it. 

He thought of the particle transporters, back at Atlas HQ. Their headquarters was a sprawling feature, large enough to literally be seen from space. Atlas didn’t outsource their manufacturing, which required an indecent amount of space to keep track of all their inventory and facilitate deliveries. Initially, they had transported supplies and materials from storage to the the labs with a streamlined row of teleporters that had lined an entire massive wall in the loading bay. They were essentially one-way fast travels that operated like a slingshot between one point and another, moving items instantly and effortlessly, all while substantially cutting costs and labor. 

Rhys had never agreed to testing this link on organic matter, ever omniscient that his relationship with the public was the driving force of his career, and he couldn’t afford that type of scandal. But one day, a worker had carelessly misjudged his aim with a load, and had been sucked into the transporter alongside a shipment of bathroom deodorants and sanitizing spray. He came out the other side, unbelievably whole, but with severely altered bone density and a violent case of vomiting. 

His security team had found out, and begged Rhys to look into human applications, desperately trying to sell him on ‘emergency survival strategies’. Reluctantly, Rhys had agreed and set a team aside to work on it, and the first successful human transportation device had been perfected and trademarked by Atlas only four years ago. It was a system-wide phenomenon and had seen no consumer injuries, but Rhys still refused to personally use it. The whole idea weirded him out, something which Fiona never failed to mock him for. 

Scarlett, though, was unlikely to have the same high standards. He took a shot, hoping he wasn’t too off the mark. He was a salesman, after all, and placing a customer with a product was a skill he had mastered long ago. 

“Something that _does_ matter to you, I’m sure, is self-preservation. You’re clearly an incredibly accomplished woman in that right, but a backup would never hurt. A rough situation occurs, you’re isolated, outnumbered -- what if you could just flip a switch, and you’d instantly be back in a safehouse of your choosing, your trail and destination untraceable?”

Scarlet clasped her hands together, looking thrilled. “A _t eleporter_ _!_   Yes, lovely! I’d heard chatter some bigwig had rummaged up something like that. Hardly a customized piece, but Hell, I won’t complain.”

“I’ll sync it to your biosignature,” Rhys explained quickly, worried about losing any of Scarlett’s illustrious infatuation. “Usable only by you. And keep in mind that it works like a tunnel, or a portal: one point of entry, one point of exit. Just enough to get you out of a bad spot.”

“Wonderful,” Scarlett gushed. “I accept, and all is forgiven. I expect it sooner than later, you understand. I only have a handful of expendable crew left.”

“Yeah, what’s the deal with that?” Jack asked, breaking his silence to gesture around at the mass of dead pirates. “This half of the planet has been shanking each other daily to get on your crew, now, what? A mutiny?”

Scarlett scoffed. “Hardly. It’s this damn bandit lord, Cater, or Cate, or something,” she sighed irritably, as though the reminder of the name was enough to ruin her day. “She’s twisted everyone up from here to Sander’s Gorge about some Eridium God nonsense.”

“Cate?” Rhys blurted out, surprised. “That’s a pretty tame title, for a bandit lord.”

Scarlett wrinkled her nose. “It’s short for Fornicater.”

“Ah,” Rhys replied softly, while Jack tittered in amusement behind him. “Well, what’s an Eridium God, then?”

“Who the hell knows,” Scarlett snapped, her impatience and anger rising, though it wasn’t directed at Rhys in particular. “The whole thing started somewhere around Boliviti, with a group of washed out Firehawk followers.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Lilith’s old cult following, and his laughter at Rhys’s expense ceased. “Firehawk, huh? Thought they were old news.”

“Lilith has been visiting past haunts,” Scarlett elaborated. “Half-drunk, doped up on Eridium, blabbering a bunch of nonsense to anyone that’ll listen. It started as a celebration after Lynchwood, you know, a victory tour and whatnot, but I guess Lilith just never stopped. She’s got something heavy on her mind.”

“Victory tour?” Rhys asked, looking between Scarlett and Jack, but the conversation had tunnelled. Jack’s eyes had gone coldly distant, and he was laser focused on the shoulder fringe of Scarlett’s outfit, as though if he stared long enough, he could be given a pass from responding to the conversation. When Scarlett spoke again, her voice was softer. 

“I’m sorry about what happened, Jack. With Nisha. Don’t think I ever said before. I lost a good friend that day, but I daresay you lost a bit more.”

 _Nisha?_   Rhys wondered, racking his brain to discern where he had heard that name before. The silver edge of a Sheriff’s badge gleamed in his memories, a dark-skinned profile half hidden behind the brim of a old-fashioned cowboy hat. Pink lipstick that amplified a smirk. Two Jakobs revolvers, aimed down at the Sentinel, barrels smoking as she jetted backwards, midriff exposed. 

Nisha. The Lawbringer. 

A flash in his head, like a sheet had been ripped away to expose the newest work of art, and Rhys was transported back into a new memory. Nisha was below him, miles and miles of dark skin that were his for the taking. His hands were bigger as they ran down her thigh, and her lips formed the name _Jack_ rather than his own. Scars littered her battle-tested frame, and her fingers were calloused as they guided him into her, a dominating woman who was as hard as the life that she led. Helios was finishing its construction around them, the distant sounds of loaders and engineers nothing but background noise as they made use of some dead man’s unoccupied office, only days after the Sentinel battle. 

Another flash. She was riding him, perfect and wonderful, right up until her fingers pressed against his windpipe and panic _flared_ white-hot inside him. He pushed her off in a startled, reactionary craze, his heart thudding wildly against his chest. Her eyes were narrowed in annoyance, short hair out of place in odd angles against her face, but he swallowed her questions with a kiss, initiating it only to get her to stop talking, to stop her from spewing her disappointment like she had run out of places to put it, and it had nowhere to linger but the space between them. He could still hear the words in his head. 

_“Don’t be such a bitch.”_

_“Coward.”_

_“You think you’re a big man, huh?”_

He held her down against the counter, pushing into her in urgency, cutting off the insults she tried to pass for teasing with as much force as he could manage. She had always liked the brutality, the constant seesawing battle of who would be the one taking control that night. Her words turned into appreciative moans and gasps, as though riling him up had been her intention all along. As though it had been an agreement beforehand, no safe words, just enough anger to make the thrusts harder and the pleasure tempt the boundaries of pain. 

Jack’s blood was pumping too fast, and his hands shook. Panic was clawing at the insides of his chest, but he kept it stifled, trying not to think of the words his grandmother had hissed at him as she held him down by his neck, turning his skin red and then blue with a thin leather strip. 

 _“You think you’re a big man, Jack, trying to run off? You ugly, worthless child. ‘Too pathetic to kill’, that’s what you mother said when she abandoned you here, but me? I’ve got compassion for you, even after all the shit you put me through, even after you try to leave me. Ungrateful brat. Stop_ **_SQUIRMING_ ** _, you awful -- Little -- Bitch!”_

A flash, a swirl of disorienting colors, a jolt in time. Rhys--no, Jack--had let Nisha up to his penthouse, a relationship milestone that his head told him he needed to achieve, while his heart thudded warnings against letting another living thing breathe the atmosphere he used to share with Angel, before she…

Before. 

She wandered around his high-tech home, looking like he had dragged a time traveller unwillingly into the future, where her blood-stained clothes and old-fashioned revolvers were a blight on a modernized society. His stomach was revolting against the scene as she examined his bedroom, wrinkling her nose at his home comforts. 

“How many pillows does one man need?” She had scoffed, as if not living hard at every moment of the day was likely to break down her fortification. 

“You ever fuck on an actual bed, Nisha?” He tried to tease, but there was too much honesty in it. “I’d invite you to try it, but I’m worried you’ll tell me a story about a magical night you spent on top of the pelts of animals you bludgeoned.” 

“You’re soft, Jack,” she chastised, and Rhys could feel Jack’s heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. He tried not to think about how badly he wanted her, just once, to touch him without making it a display. Without making it an enticement, an allure, a promise of physically impressive but emotionally hollow sex, as he chased after a sensation she was outright unable to give him. 

He thought about how he wanted to take her to bed, and make her laugh, genuinely, without heavy words about the atrocities they’d love to commit driving their conversation through the rough waters of intimacy. 

“What’s here?” She asked, and Jack cursed, knowing she had reached the door on the opposite end of the hallway. A door that hadn’t been used in years. 

Angel was thirteen now. Progress was slow in utilizing the information Jack had obtained from the Vault, but it was still progress. Eventually, Nisha would have to know. Preferably, before Jack suddenly introduced her to the pre-teen daughter he had been hiding in a remote facility, guarded by a fully automated bunker with enough arsenal to tear apart half of Pandora. 

He had to tell her. Didn’t he?

“What is this? Is this… glitter on the door?” 

There was disgust in her voice. He thought of sweet, tiny Angel, scribbling her name in glitter glue across the door. Jack had held her up so she could reach the full extent of her canvas, her tiny fingers gripping the stick clumsily, and just a tad too hard in her determination. The letters had all but crusted off over time, leaving only faint traces of the glitter his daughter had been so enthralled over. And Nisha had the audacity to stand where she stood, scowling down at the last remaining traces of Angel like they weren’t the most precious part of his entire home. 

“Get away,” he said, and the command slipped out as easily as anything ever had. Like the words had been hovering on the cusp of his willingness to isolate himself even more. “Just, get away from the door.” 

“What’s back there? There’s glitter all over it. _Gross_. What is this shit?”

“Get **AWAY!”**

The air hung heavy, stagnant and uncomfortable. Her hand fell away from the handle, symbolic of the very first time she had listened to him when he wasn’t literally paying her to. Her eyes were blazing, but it wasn’t a fiery curiosity, like he was half-hoping, but the intensity of anger. God, how desperately he’d wanted her to push. He wanted her invested. He wanted her to approach him with something akin to kindness, and maybe, with that fortitude, he might have been able to tell her. He wanted her to demand that he let her see, because she was a big part of his life, and she deserved to know. 

“I’m gonna head out,” she said instead. 

Jack didn’t follow her. 

Another flash, another gulp in time. This one was more recent, as a slightly younger, but still vibrant Angel stood before him. She was paler than Rhys remembered, a sign she had only recently been released from the tank, and her skin still hadn’t adjusted to the light she could get from the distant, filtered sun. 

Jack held his mask in his hands, staring down at it. His shoulders hung heavy. 

“You’re putting it on?” Angel asked. “Why?” 

“Nisha doesn’t like it off,” he answered, and tried to keep the emotion out of it. He couldn’t blame her. His face was a wreck. Nothing could be done to fix it. Eridium gives and takes at leisure, and Jack would have traded so much more just to ensure that Angel kept standing in front of him, safe and happy and _alive._

Still, it hurt. 

His grandmother had been right about a lot of things. Throwing ‘Handsome’ in front of his name wouldn’t change what was. 

“I don’t really like her,” Angel sniffed, still maladjusted to social cues and learning which thoughts to keep to herself. Jack didn’t begrudge her for it. The candor was nice, all things considered, and she had a particular way of translating the things in his head to words that would never make it out of his throat. “I mean. You like her, I guess, so that’s good, but what are you supposed to do? Wear a mask whenever you’re with her?”

Jack didn’t respond. He had figured out the answer to that question a long time ago, in more ways than one. It wouldn’t be the only mask he wore with her anyway, so what difference did a physical one make?

“I’ll be back in an hour or so, just going to meet her in my office so we can go over the plans for Lynchwood.” He said instead, pushing the mask against his face and letting it meld into his skin to form something passable as a normal human features. His blind eye stung as the mask sunk in around it, transforming it back to how it used to be, covering up the hideous, painful Vault scar. He ensured the clasps were locked, because he couldn’t afford a slip. “Pick out a movie for us while I’m gone. We’ll get a pizza.” 

“Why don’t you ever invite her up here?” 

Jack shook his head, dismissing the question, and Angel at least had the decency to hesitate, before--

“She still doesn’t know about me, does she?”

Jack stood, kissed Angel on her forehead, and pulled on his jacket. His lack of an answer was enough in itself, and even at fourteen, Angel knew when she had gotten more of a response from Jack’s silence than his words would ever say. 

The world swam back into view, like Rhys was shaking himself from a particularly lucid daydream. The jolt back to reality was disorienting, and he had to rearrange his footing to stop himself from tipping over as the world adjusted beneath his feet. 

Luckily, it seemed very little conversation had happened in the brief expanse of time Rhys had been forced to relive the brunt of Jack’s memories with Nisha. Scarlett was turned away from him, barking orders at her waiting pirates, who were scrambling to obey her like drunk fools upon seeing their queen. At the sound of Rhys’ near stumble, Jack’s eyes shot to him, and one look at whatever face Rhys wore gave Jack enough information to deduce what had happened. 

Jack’s eyes went fiery. “What did you see?” He growled lowly, utilizing the brief moment of privacy. 

But Rhys only shook his head, still reeling. He had no idea how to explain what he had seen, what he had _felt._ The man he had shared a heated moment with back in the hut was _not_ the man he had just been. The Jack that had kissed him was running on superficial reactions, misplacing his adrenaline and peaking his need to control anything that impressed him, that could potentially _challenge_ him. That was Handsome Jack, no mistaking it. But Jack, the programmer at Hyperion, the father, the engineer, the man in over his head, Rhys didn’t want to know that man, he didn’t want to be seeing the memories. That man was alien, he was far too _human,_ and it was tilting Rhys’s worldview askew. 

A lot of things started sliding into place, and Rhys was mortified that he was forced to know about any of them. The abusive grandmother, the PTSD, the debilitating need for comfort, the control junkie that used his girlfriend for a fix. The same girlfriend who saw him as weak, the girlfriend he kept around as a constant reminder to stay hardened, that everyone was a threat, that weakness was a liability. 

The girlfriend Lilith had, apparently, sent to the grave. 

Rhys would have _begged_ to avoid this kind of intimacy with anyone. He had no basis of comparison to deal with emotional trauma, no way to analyze it, fix it, or generally care about it. His own problems had been worked through with a delightful tedium until they ceased to matter, until better things replaced them, and no lingering black clouds had followed him into his bright, effervescent future. Fiona and Sasha had made their peace with their demons, had gathered them up and wore them as armor, but they knew how to take it off. There were no masks. And, they had each other. 

There was a chance that Jack didn’t know the extent of what Rhys had seen, and that was his only saving grace. They wouldn’t talk about it. There would be no need, especially not after they safely severed their connection, and Rhys figured out a way to get his team back home. If Jack found out that Rhys knew any more of his carefully guarded secrets, the less likely it would be that he’d ever leave Helios alive. 

Before he could answer Jack’s blazing question, Scarlett reopened whatever remained of the conversation Rhys had missed out on. 

“Alright, lads. I’ll lead my crew in first, and Hyperion can follow after. You’re looking for something in particular, I imagine, so we’ll keep our hands off until you can claim it. After that, it’s all fair game, sound good?”

“Sounds great, babe,” Jack responded, but his eyes weren’t leaving Rhys, and Rhys’s chest felt paper thin with how hard his heart was beating against it. 

His hopes for letting the talk lie were dashed as quickly as they came. Jack wasn’t ready to let Rhys’s invasion of his memories be brushed aside, and though they both knew nothing could be done about it, Rhys wasn’t sure that excuse would be enough to temper the tide of Jack’s anger.

Retrieving the matrix took less time then Rhys expected. It was exactly where it should have been, tucked away in the labs that even the pirates and their powder kegs couldn’t blow into. The remaining Hyperion soldiers disconnected it, and hoisted it back to the transport, while Scarlett’s crew began ransacking the place. Rhys, in a sudden state of forlorn apathy, shut the remaining security down, allowing her access to the laughably small armory.

“No problem,” he muttered, after she had grinned devilishly at him, the only form of thanks he was likely to get now that he had given everything up to her.

“You should keep this one around, Jack,” Scarlett supplied, watching as her crew began ripping electronics from the very walls to use as salvage. “Real handy, isn’t he? You staying long, Atlas?”

“No,” Rhys answered, further dismayed to remember that he was very unlikely to be leaving this planet alive. “I’m afraid not.”

Bitter resentment of his position settled heavy in his gut.

Jack said nothing until they were back in the transport, joining Rhys in the side room like it had never been an option to go back to his own, considerably larger space. Rhys was subdued, his revolver sitting heavy in it’s holster, stained with flaky, drying blood. He could feel the grime on his skin now, like the more peace he was granted, the more obvious his filth became. He wondered, blearily, if that was why Jack still insisted on joining Hyperion ground teams during operations. 

Surround yourself with chaos, and your own won’t seem so delineating.

“Where’s Tim?” Rhys asked, because he refused to sit and wait for Jack to speak, like a child who’d been forced to stand in a corner until they’d learned their lesson. 

“Tim’s fine,” Jack mumbled, taking the seat furthest away from Rhys. “I’ll let him know you were thinking of him though. He’s a real sap for that shit.”

There was too much in that sentence. Sarcasm, vicious dismissal, impatience, greed, all of it spoke too clearly of a man who was in a situation he couldn’t handle. But Rhys was _tired,_ and had very little desire to deal with Jack’s petulance. 

“Can we just skip to the part where you grill me?”

Jack glanced at him, chewing his lip in annoyance as he spread out his arms across the back of the seats, taking up as much space in the room as he could. The transport shifted underneath them, preparing for flight, and Rhys sighed into the silence. 

“Jack, I don’t… I can’t stop it from happening, alright? And if you think I’m happy, worming my way through all your fucking memories, I’m not. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to _know. ”_

Jack shifted uncomfortably, and it was a few tense seconds before he finally asked, “What did you see?”

“Nisha,” Rhys answered honestly, because from the firefight to the memory pilfering, his energy had been sapped, and he was hoping that being blunt would make this go faster. The novelty of _melding_ was losing its appeal. “Do you really want to know the details?”

“An overview, yeah,” Jack scoffed, as if it were obvious.

“Fine,” Rhys gritted out, determined to bullet point the list and make it as precise as possible. “Sex, mainly. I know your grandmother was an abusive shitbag, and you don’t like being at someone’s mercy. I know your relationship with Nisha wasn’t ideal, and I know you didn’t tell her about Angel. I saw you invite her up to your penthouse, she saw the glitter…” He trailed off without finishing, satisfied that Jack would understand.

Jack’s fingers flexed and twitched, and Rhys could feel the horrible churn of disgust and anxiety, deep in his own gut, for what he had seen. Even a fraction of the upset Jack had felt in that moment, of watching the woman he wanted to love revolt at the idea of something cherishable, it made him nauseous. 

“I’m sorry she’s dead, Jack,” Rhys finished finally, letting his inner voice foolishly take the spotlight. “But if I’m being real here, she seemed like a piece of shit. ...Did she really make you wear the mask?”

Jack opened his eyes to sneer at him. “So what if she did? My face ain’t pretty, cupcake.”

Rhys had nothing to say to that. Nothing that he could say to a stranger, anyway (for Jack was becoming too many things, and Rhys could no longer say he understood him). Rhys knew what was under that mask, the upturned V, scorched across Jack’s face like a brand, snuffing out an eye and perpetually glowing with a faint, Eridium purple. But he didn’t find it particularly unappealing; rather, another facet of an impressive man, a battle scar for a conquering hero, a lifelong testament to Jack’s dedication for Vault Hunting. It was startling, to be sure, but Rhys had repeatedly defaced his own body with cybernetic replacements, so who was he to judge someone else’s alterations? 

Still. Going through life being called an ugly, worthless shit wouldn’t have been easy. You’d have to overcompensate, but the poor self-image would always be there, reinforced by a girlfriend who found you entirely intolerable unless you were covering yourself up. Adding a massive, painful scar as a reminder of Lilith’s betrayal was bound to resurface old demons, as well as create new ones. 

“Angel doesn’t make you wear it,” Rhys reasoned. 

Jack clearly had an excuse planned for that one, and his snappish response was bitten out just as the transport began to take off. 

“Children are blind to their parents. What I look like doesn’t matter to her, because I keep her safe. Others, well--”

Rhys felt his annoyance rising. He hated pity parties, and his patience was already shot. 

 _“ I_ know what’s under the mask,” he interrupted, trying and failing to hold back the sting that punctured the air. “Didn’t seem to matter much an hour ago, did it?”

Jack stared at him the same way he did when Rhys first walked into his office -- like he wanted nothing more then to catapult him into space, but he’d be losing a resource in the process. “You offering to keep me warm tonight, Rhysie?”

Rhys couldn’t deny the shiver of thrill that crawled up his spine, but he was playing a dangerous game. Up here, in the safety of the transport with the blood on his clothes a ripening sickness rather than a victory, he was abruptly realizing how foolish this entanglement was. He was already more wound around Jack then he had any intention to be, and adding a physical component to their already tumultuous relationship was further inviting inevitable jeopardy. 

Besides, he wasn’t one to play the rebound. He deserved better than that, and he wasn’t ready to be another collectible in Jack’s cabinet, a treasure valued for a brief stretch of time, but never important enough to break through the surface what Jack had been searching for with Nisha. 

“I’m sure you have a bedroom full of concubines at your beck and call, Jack,” Rhys answered carefully, always cautious of Jack’s moods, but currently more concerned about his own weariness. “And if not, I’m sure you could call one up fast enough. I’m not really the ‘bed-warming’ type.” 

“And what type are you, pumpkin?” Jack asked, and it had the curl of condescending familiarity, but it was muted. Like Jack was feeling the same overwhelming apathy and discouragement that currently plagued Rhys, but _he_ at least intended to keep up appearances. 

Rhys thought, bouncing the question around in his head as if it might loosen up an answer. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. “But it’s occurring to me that I suddenly have standards.”

Jack scoffed, obviously offended. “What, do I not meet them? Cause about an hour ago, you were--” 

“No,” Rhys corrected quickly, because as much as Jack could afford being taken down a peg or two, Rhys knew better than to lie. “Standards for myself.” He opened his eyes just enough to glance at Jack from across the short distance between them. “I’m not here to be your entertainment, Jack, I’ve said that.”

“Right,” Jack admonished quietly. “You’re here to lie through your teeth. You’re here to perform ‘make-believe colleagues’, and play me for the fool. _Just_ like they did. You know, maybe I was wrong about you, Rhysie: you were _born_ to play these shitty Pandoran games. Hell, you’re already a pro.”

That stung, but Rhys knew he deserved it. He’d devised this trip with every intention of blindsiding Handsome Jack, despite the borderline embarrassing reverence he’d held for the man. It was just business. Eden transactions were logistical nightmares, filled with chatty lawyers who demanded more rewrites than Rhys had patience for, but they were _simple_ compared to his off-world ventures, where what Rhys had to trade mattered more than his hypothetical worth. 

Still, Rhys _had_ considered diplomacy up until he’d heard how Jack dealt with anyone who threatened Pandora’s Eridium lifeblood. How he scoured the planet for Vault Hunters like a man obsessed, issuing a blanket statement for immediate execution of these high-profile targets. Diplomacy could only be useful here if Rhys had played the correct angle. If he lied. 

“So I was less than honest,” Rhys admitted with a heavy shrug. “But in defense of that, what would you have done if I approached you with my intentions? We could have struck an incredible deal, something that would grow both our companies indefinitely, but you’d have shot me on sight. You nearly did anyway,” he scoffed.

“Maybe you should have the good sense to stay in your own fucking system,” Jack growled, nothing but half-invested animosity.

Rhys considered that, momentarily basking in the good advice no one had ever given him. He’d intentionally surrounded himself with people that mirrored his own drive for success, for power, and it had never occurred to any of them to slow down and enjoy an enviable life from a position of comfort. He could have lived his every moment on Eden-5, holed up in his office tower with all his original organic parts, and lived a peaceful existence; noteworthy, but otherwise unextraordinary. 

The idea was briefly entertained, but Rhys found no satisfaction from it. 

Before he could answer, Jack was pushing himself up and striding out of the door, likely headed back to the privacy Rhys wasn’t even sure they had anymore. He could feel Jack’s frustration, raw and throbbing like an open wound, and could no longer distinguish it from his own prickling doubt. He didn’t know where they stood anymore, and the more he dug at his own flaws, like tonguing a sore tooth, the more he wondered about his own arrogance. Had it prevented him from realizing that Jack’s pedestal had always rivaled his own? That he wasn’t the only person who had a say in his future? The only even footing he had known here had been brazenly crafted by his own trailblazing, but his view was narrowing, and his feet were stumbling.

He closed his eyes, and tried, if only for a moment, to feel alone. 

 


	9. I was told to tell a one-sided story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see every one of you. Thank you.
> 
> Nice long chapter for you guys to make up for the slow posting schedule.

_///_

_Passion born_

_Like a resource torn_

_From a planet’s core_

_Stole my crown just to examine the thorns_

_///_

  
  


The sight of Rhys during his return had sent Fiona scrambling for distance. Too many emotions were pressing against her, trying to unwind her steadfast determination and force words to the tip of her tongue, and she didn’t relish that kind of vulnerability. 

He was battered and pathetic, looking as though someone had lovingly rolled him in dirt and entrails and declared him fully adoptable. Any wounds must have been juvied before he came back, as he didn’t move with the same stiffness Fiona had witnessed in other post-firefight situations, but his body still sagged with lethargy and world-weariness. 

Fiona, unused to seeing Rhys with his eyes cast downwards, as though his answers no longer lay within grabbing distance before him, was entirely unnerved at the spectacle. Vaughn took control of the situation, guiding Rhys into the penthouse and peppering him gently with questions. The others gathered around, drawn to the lingering presence of the _outdoors_ on him, and Rhys broke through their shield long enough to tell Fiona she was allowed out with an escort. 

As always, he recognized her need and granted it, and she was _gone._

She set off down towards the endless hallways, letting her feet carry her on autopilot. Her escorts were two Hyperion soldiers who looked about as thrilled at the prospect of their job as she felt, but her focus was elsewhere. 

She hated seeing Rhys like that, and even more, she hated admitting what the sight did to her. When she pictured Rhys in her mind, it was one of two things: Atlas COO and President, dressed like steel with a perpetual sense of brilliant mischief hiding behind his expression. A man who had a foot in every clique, a man who left everyone in debt to his favor, and a man who crafted his own buzzwords with nothing but a silver tongue and infectious addiction. Or, she thought of Rhys as a boy in pajama pants with his leg swung over the back of the couch, half asleep in the dull throes of night as he muttered furiously about whatever drama he was watching. She thought of a boy who sang as he cooked, who sassed back Fiona’s insults just as good as she gave them. 

Sometimes, she thought of him dead in the sprawling lawlessness of Pandora. She thought of the planet burying his open, unseeing eyes in sand, eager to claim him as another relic of a life gone too soon. She thought of what bandits would do to him, were they smart enough to figure out his importance. She thought of what they would do when the novelty of his presence died, when ransom didn’t come quickly enough, and they cared more about how many meals they could make of him while still technically keeping him alive. 

She had thought of many things before, contemplated all scenarios. But seeing the light behind Rhys eyes fading, as though he were one snapped string away from crumpling -- _that_ wasn’t a demeanor she had entertained. Even worse, she didn’t know how to fix it. Hell, she didn’t even want to _see_ it, not when the foreboding was so strong it had sent a wave of nausea through her system.

She halted at the elevator, unsure of what to do and annoyed at having to make a decision when there were so many other things that required her focus. She wheeled on her guards. 

“Where can I find somewhere quiet?”

They looked at each other, then back at her, their fingers tapping an awkward cadence on their rifles. 

“Uh,” one of them finally responded, looking entirely out of his element. “There’s a courtyard on Level Sixteen. Like, an indoor thing. Lots of trees, a manufactured lake, stuff like that.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Right, I ask for somewhere quiet, and you give me the only meet-up spot on this station. I want _quiet_ , not manufactured tranquility that’s going to be crawling with Hyperion employees.”

The right guard turned toward his partner, affronted. “She’s being kind of a bitch. Can’t we just decide--”

“Thirty-first Level,” the left guard answered, ignoring his slightly more unprofessional partner. “It’s entirely storage for Opportunity, and that shit’s on backlog. It’s quiet.”

“Perfect,” Fiona muttered, turning back to mash the elevator button. 

The guards filed in after her, quiet either from interest, or boredom. Fiona didn’t care. She’d take a thousand guards with her if it meant she could get out of that insufferable suite. The elevator tinged down slowly, mocking her incessant need to put as much distance between herself and the tomb that waited above her. 

The level was eerily silent, just as the guards had promised. Straight, immaculate corridors stretched out along Fiona’s sides as she walked past them, fruitlessly trying to entice her interest with labels like “botany supplies,” “field crew equipment,” and “small machinery.” She ignored them all and made her way to the secondary loading bay, where transports would eventually come down and move the supplies to the main deck. It was considerably smaller than the port, but still retained the same floor to ceiling windows that gave stunning views of the space beyond Helios. One day, when Opportunity was ready to be cultivated, the windows would be swapped out with the same intangible shields that allowed matter to pass through, but kept the freezing vacuum of space contained where it belonged. Most of the heavier machinery that couldn’t be properly stored in containers had found their way here, resting against the walls like slumbering soldiers waiting for orders. 

In the middle of this vast expanse of window, a single man sat in a solitary chair, his feet propped up on office table that had been dragged over from its lineup. He looked as though he had been ripped from a painting, something created and whispered to life to convey an emptiness no words could yet touch. A desolate figure, lingering far too close to an edge that would swallow up his essense with consuming indifference; tiny against the backdrop of space, but all the more profound in that demure insignificance. 

He turned at the sound of Fiona’s footsteps, and her movement haltered as she recognized the shadowy profile, even from a distance. Unease hit her like a wave as the man’s familiarity barreled over her, but doubt was still struggling to stay afloat, urging her to realize that _Jack_ would still be far above her, in the penthouse levels, nursing whatever wounds he had obtained and surrounding himself in attention he craved. _This_ man could not be him. 

The guards behind her stiffened. “Handsome Jack, sir. We apologize, we--”

“It’s fine,” the figure nearly sighed, as though he were already weary of speaking to them, and waved his hand in dismissal. “Leave her here, and excuse yourselves. I’ll handle it.”

One guard looked as though he wanted to argue, but his skittish partner was already mumbling his confirmation of orders, turning away from the scene to backtrack down towards the elevators. Robbed of his only Hyperion backup, the first guard quickly followed, likely realizing that disobeying a direct order from Handsome Jack would be far worse than whatever punishment his CO would whip up for abandoning his duty. 

Fiona stood there, unsure of what to do, but as the distant elevator doors finally slid closed, the man turned his attention to her. 

“Do you want to sit?” He asked, motioning towards the desk in the most informal fashion possible. As if he were greeting an old friend, but was still gauging their new personality changes and deciding how to act. 

“Not really, no.”

The man shrugged. “I figured. At least come up by the window. It’s a decent view.”

Fiona did as she was beckoned and moved cautiously towards the sprawling window. Pandora was a beautiful swirl of red and white below them, cracked along the side from the coursing Eridium. Purple haze stretched out from the open wound of Pandora’s surface like a solar flare, like lazy fingers reaching out for something to secure themselves to. She didn’t look to the man beside her, who lounged easily in the chair like he’d claimed this place as his sanctuary long ago. 

Maybe he had. 

“It’s… Tim, right?” She asked awkwardly, and he nodded, quiet and contemplative to contrast Jack’s volatile and blusterous nature. When he didn’t say anything else, she cleared her throat softly. “I’m, uh...not suppose to be without a security detail. You know, Bumbling Idiot One and Two that you just sent away?”

“You looked like you could use a break from idiocy in general,” Tim responded lightly, still gazing mildly out at the stars. “Besides, I gave the order, so as long as you’re with me you won’t get gunned down in the hallways, if that’s your concern. I’ll escort you back whenever you’re ready, or if you prefer, I can call another team.”

 “Why?” she asked, because she could think of very little else to say to this foreign thing beside her. 

“Because it sucks to be you right now,” Tim replied honestly, giving another half-committed shrug. “If I can give you some peace for twenty minutes, I will. Not much else I can do.”

Fiona was silenced by the abrupt honesty, and the quiet stretched between them. Helios was afflicted by Pandora’s gravitational pull just like Elpis was, and slowly, she was able to register the rotation of the planet below them. The purple cracks of Pandora would soon fade away into rust and snow, if she remained here, and she bitterly wondered why the hell they hadn’t pulled back the drapes on the suite windows. It was beautiful below them, and the sight might have made the lockdown a little easier to swallow. 

“I’m sorry about what happened down there,” Tim said, and his voice flowed with the quiet rather than shattering it. “Cuffing you and... everything.”

Fiona wanted to look at him, wanted to see what emotions she could read in the nuances of Tim’s face, but it was hard to see anything but Jack. 

“Just doing your job?” She asked sardonically, unable to temper her anger. 

Tim’s gaze didn’t slide away from Pandora as he breathed out something that could almost be construed as regret. “Something like that, yeah.”

“You’re real good at it,” she continued, finally finding an outlet for her anger that didn’t involve emotionally stunting Gaige or breaking Vaughn’s spirit. As far as she was concerned, Tim was just an extension of Jack, and he deserved the lashing just as much as the CEO did. “You get a lot of practice rounding up civilians and herding them like animals? That how you treat people up here?”

Tim snorted. “Yeah, it is. And after lying to Jack, I’d say Atlas lot got off lucky, all things considered. I’d be grateful. Besides, you’re _hardly_ a civilian, Ms. Erins.”

Fiona narrowed her eyes, but Tim had made a solid point, and one she couldn’t hope to win a debate on. Annoyingly, he didn’t seem to be in a fighting mood, which was pulling the wind from a few of Fiona’s sails. She was aching for a shouting match, for someone’s intensity to match her own, but Tim, despite his smattering of sarcasm, was still draped placidly over his chair with his feet on the desk, content to watch the world float by. 

She recalled, with some annoyance, Gaige and Vaughn’s argument for Tim’s character. Half-hoping she’d find an alternative motive for Tim’s treatment of Axton, she voiced her suspicions. “You gave Axton that hypo, and you had to do it secretly. So why do it at all?”

She chanced a look at Tim’s face, and finally registered that he wasn’t wearing Jack’s mask. His skin was smooth where Jack’s certainly would have held a horrible scar, and in the absence of Jack’s usual sneer, the face looked pensive. Sad, almost. 

“I have to kill a lot of people,” he said finally, his voice ringing hollow despite the severity of the declaration. “Doesn’t mean I like to see them suffer.”

Fiona flicked her eyesight back to Pandora, considering Tim’s words. Growing up in the slums of the planet had afforded her insight to the cruelty of the world, and often, suffering and Hyperion went hand in hand. The half-baked stories that drifted her off to an uneasy sleep always revolved around loader bots snatching people from their homes to be used in Hyperion experimentation, or Tassiter himself coming down to order the execution of her dreary, poverty-infested town. 

Then Jack had came. She had been older, then, and as good at thieving as she would ever be, but she still remembered. She and Sasha had climbed to the peak of the jutting cliff above their cavern to watch the distant explosions on Elpis as Jack and his Vault Hunters fought to drive back Zarpadon’s forces. A kindling of hope surfaced when news came that Tassiter was dead, strangled to death by the new CEO who had spent his entire career gathering information on the Board of Directors to blackmail them into acquiescence. He stepped into the spotlight with every corporate idiot already leashed and collared. 

She thought, just maybe, the man who had saved Elpis would bring about peace on Pandora. 

But that had been a foolish, childish dream. Pandora couldn’t be tamed; it had to be culled and entirely restructured, and she had figured that out long before Jack did. She allowed Pandora to tear the hope from her heart the same way it tore Jack’s willingness to try, and slowly, the stories of Hyperion terror began to resurface as Jack’s acceptance wavered. He lost men. He lost work crews, equipment, resources, and whatever care he tried to give the people was snatched and hocked and drove residents to blows. Soldiers started appearing again, gunning down anyone who came too close to Hyperion personnel, and vicious rumors about Jack’s newfound cruelty swept the land like a winter’s chill. 

Fiona hated Hyperion as much as she hated everyone else that made life difficult for her, but she harbored no personal resentment. Jack and his army was just another hindrance, another barrel she had to sneak under, and another factor she had to plan into her day. 

But now, things were different.

“I’m not going to thank you,” she replied finally. “If that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Tim smiled, but it was fragile and self-deprecating, like the only humor he understood anymore was bracing irony. “What the hell would you thank me for?”

Fiona was jarred once again. She had fully expected a clone of Jack -- after all, wasn’t that the point of a body double? But while she was well acquainted with the Tim that led the troops, exchanging witty banter and giving a stellar acting performance, this was a different man that sat next to her. A broken man. Someone who did a job, and did it well, but couldn’t embrace it to the point of satisfaction. 

“You hate being him,” Fiona reasoned tactlessly. “So why do it?”

Tim snorted, and Fiona expected she deserved that. He tapped the side of his manufactured cheek as though to remind her. “What do you want me to do, find a new job? I have a great resume, sure, but I get the distinct feeling that I’ll be _profiled_ if I look for other employment.”

Fiona wouldn’t look at him directly. She didn’t want to make that kind of connection. But, she couldn’t deny the questions she had, and he seemed willing and ready to give up the answers. “Would Jack let you leave if you wanted?”

“No,” Tim replied, and while it wasn’t as desolate as Fiona expected it to be, it didn’t hold any emotion at all. Just another facet in a life unchangeable. “I’m under contract. Twenty years.”

“Jesus,” Fiona whispered, because to her, it didn’t sound unlike slavery. “What the hell compelled you to agree to that?”

Tim shrugged. “Money. I had a lot of debt to the Hyperion Academy.”

Fiona raised a scarred eyebrow. “Like, schooling?”

“Yeah. I wanted…” he broke off, glancing at Fiona while his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm across his knee. “Look, don’t judge me, alright?”

Fiona, utterly bewildered by the insecurity, only nodded. Of the conversations she expected to have with Hyperion employees, this wasn’t one of them. 

“I wanted to be a combat journalist. You know, the guy that’s down there in the mud with the soldiers, getting the personal stories, writing down the little things that get lost in the grandeur. Drones handle most of the filming, but if you want people to care about something, you have to make it personal. Relatable. That was my dream job.”

Fiona stayed silent, but there was a strange wretch in her heart at Tim’s compassionate view. Misguided and outdated for Pandora, yes, but it reminded her so vividly of how her and Sasha used to be as children, when they were determined to change things for the better. 

“You have to prepare for that kind of stuff, if you’re going to be a media attaché,” Tim continued. “You can’t be liability. So I had to sign up for Hyperion training: marksmanship, field scenarios, hand-to-hand, that kind of stuff. It got expensive. And I…” He paused again, looking uncomfortable. “I wasn’t very good with people. Couldn’t find a squad to take me on, and Tassiter was too paranoid to approve funding for humanitarian stories. I couldn’t pay back my loans.”

Tim cleared his throat lightly, and seemed overly eager to finish his story. “I was contacted by a Dr. Autohn, who told me about a program that would clear my debt and provide an impressive paycheck. And it was steady. They picked out three of us that were dug into a financial pit, made sure we passed all the physical requirements and combat abilities, and brought us in to sign the papers. A full body reconstruction, twenty years working as a body double for an engineer named Jack aboard Helios station, and I’d be making bank. I’d be set for life. It seemed like a good deal at the time -- most people give their careers more than two decades, and can’t even comfortably retire.”

“What happened to the other two candidates?” Fiona asked, wary from the thought of two more Handsome Jack clones scouring the station.

“They died on the table,” Tim said simply. “The operation was intense, and the first of its kind. But, as Jack always told me, it was the _‘final test of constitution’_ , so I guess there’s pride to be had in that.”

He looked anything but honored, and if the disdainful way he let Jack’s quote slip from his lips was any indication, he didn’t enjoy the thought of living where others hadn’t been so lucky. Fiona knew the feeling. The survivor’s guilt. She didn’t regret asking, because intel was priceless, but Tim’s obvious discomfort sat heavy in her gut.

“I get that the money was good,” Fiona began, trying to bring the conversation back to ground she could control and offering no sympathies for the dead. “But total body reconstruction? How could anyone be okay with that? With just… becoming an entirely different person?”

Tim sighed and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up. “It’s not--… I hated me, honestly. A loser, drowning in debt, unattractive and lonely and _scared,_ all the damn time. The new face was a bonus.” He paused, and after a reflective moment of staring at Pandora, asked, “I know you grew up down there. Don’t tell me you’ve never done something reckless just to stop existing in a life you can’t stand.”

Fiona swallowed heavily, but made no comment. Silence engulfed them steadily, like a rolling fog that heralded the changing of times. She never took the seat on the table that Tim offered her, and Tim never moved to stand beside her, but together they watched Pandora rotate lazily below them, unconcerned with the lives she had changed for those that stood upon her soil. 

An hour passed before Fiona felt the fires of her discontent simmer down to a controllable smolder. The blood no longer pulsed in her ears, aggravating her to _do_ something so that she would never have to see Rhys wince his way through the room with heavy eyes and a broken spirit. Finally, she was able to access her surroundings and options with a level head, and only then did she realize how badly her feet hurt from standing still for so long. 

She shifted, and Tim understood it for what it was. Silently, he rose and led the way back to the elevators, escorting her back up to the executive levels. He pulled the mask from his coat and secured it to his face, straightening his back like he only had to recall the correct muscles it took to transform himself into Jack, his employer. His owner. She watched Tim fade, watched the sadness leak out of his eyes to be replaced with Jack’s disposition, as though Tim were the butterfly, sealing himself back inside the cocoon.

Her own pain felt momentarily humbled, being so close to his daily plight, and she didn’t know what to do with that revelation. So when he dropped her off outside the suite, instructing the guards to let her pass as he whispered an alarmingly sincere, “Goodbye, Fiona,” all she could think to do was close the door quickly behind her before she made the very real mistake of forgiving him. 

 

///

 

Her dad’s arrival was always easily predicted, even when she wasn’t there to greet him at the docks. His footsteps carried heavily down the corridor to his office, and the odd Claptrap unit that had mistakenly made its way to the top levels would be subjected to a series of vicious snarls, followed by a swift kick of foot into metal plating. That last part usually only made Jack’s mood worse. 

“Hey, Dad,” she called out cheerily as he banged open the doors to his office. She glanced at him once over his monitors, where she had been color coding his schedule for the next two weeks. She had her own desk in the main foyer of the level Jack had deemed all his own, but when he was absent, he insisted she stay in his office. 

She never fought him on it. Secretly, she loved Jack’s giant, squishy chair and the self-righteous importance of playing pretend. It was the closest she’d ever get to hobbling around in her Dad’s shoes. 

Jack just grumbled in response, shedding his blood stained jacket and letting it fall to the floor in an undignified heap. Angel could teach a class on deciphering Jack’s moods, and luckily, this wasn’t the festering anger of helplessness against bandits, or the dangerous moods that followed conversations about Angel’s mother, or her past. No, this was petulant annoyance. 

“You wanna talk about it?” She asked, twirling in the chair lightly as she mapped out the best timeframe for his meeting with Reconnaissance. Those always ran late.

“It’s _Rhys_ _,”_   he hissed immediately, pulling his dirt-encrusted sweater over his head. 

“Nice to know you’re on a first name basis now,” Angel commented lightly, but Jack ignored her. 

“He’s got some friggin’ nerves. Poking around in _my_ head and getting an attitude afterwards, like _he_ was the one who got mind-fucked. Unbelievable!”

Angel studied him, quickly gathering that Rhys had seen something Jack wasn’t thrilled to have shared. The whole mind-melding thing was still a huge hurdle to understand, but the two of them seemed to be tackling it with as much grace as possible. Her dad was a champion at repressing things that he didn’t know how to deal with though, so for him to be openly inviting conversation, something had to have changed.

“You see his past too,” she offered, “And I’m sure he’s not thrilled with that.”

“Boring corporate bullshit,” Jack scoffed. “I mean, yeah, there was the thing with his dad being ripped apart by animals in that illegal underground ring, but that’s pretty tame compared to what he knows about _you._ ”

Angel flinched involuntarily. She loved her dad, but sometimes, the emotional detachment he trained himself to have through trauma hit a bit too hard. Uncomfortable subjects bounced right off of him and ricocheted through the room, leaving everyone else subjected to their presence while he remained unaffected. 

“No one wants to be in your head, Dad,” she said, finalizing his schedule. “If I had to live your memories, I’d be pissy too.”

“Gee, thanks Princess,” Jack replied, rolling his eyes. He pressed a button on the coffee table to summon a worker bot, and proceeded to kick off his disgusting shoes. “I’ll remember that next time you want my wisdom. What are you doing?”

“Rearranging your schedule,” she answered. “I’ve cleared out blocks of time for the next week to give you an opportunity to work with Rhys on undoing this junk. Meetings had to be pushed back, and so did your monthly trip down to oversee Opportunity, but I’ve already informed the necessary people. Should I let Rhys know when you’ll be expecting him tomorrow? I can see there’s some tension--”

“I can do it,” Jack snapped. 

“Well, you’re in a _mood--_ ” Angel tried, but Jack cut her off instantly.

“I don’t have _any_ problem talking to that little cocksucker--”

Angel mimed a gag. “Oh, gross, Dad. Still, thanks for letting me know that I’ll need to knock before I enter your office, I guess--”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Jack began, his voice verging on a lecture. But before he could defend his honor, a cleaner bot announced its arrival through a small, automated door down by the baseboards. It zipped it’s way across the room, picking up Jack’s discarded clothing and boots with programmed efficiency before disappearing back the way it came. 

Jack sighed, some of his anger seemingly sapped from the interruption. 

“This is a bigger mess than I thought it would be, honey,” Jack admitted. “I’ve got fuckin’ Vault Hunters on my station, some crazy-ass bandit lord hyping up those old Firehawk followers, your secret is out, and to top it off, my alleged COO is rummaging around in my head on a brainwave that might _kill_ me.”

“What did he see this time?” She asked hesitantly, cautious of not forcing an admittance out of Jack, lest he shut himself off.

Jack moved towards the desk, busying himself with looking at the revamped schedule over her shoulder. She could tell that he wanted to be honest with her, but admitting his insecurities was rather like chewing rocks for Jack. 

“Most of it was Nisha,” he admitted finally. “Plus, some childhood stuff that wasn’t great.”

Angel stayed silent. She hadn’t liked Nisha much, though she’d never met the woman in person. Apparently she had spent a lot of time on the station, but as soon as Angel had been cleared from her tank and transitioned back home, Jack had already assigned Nisha as Sheriff of Lynchwood. Whatever personal business they shared after that took place alongside the professional ventures, and always planetside. Angel would never mention it, but Jack always came back looking a little more worn around the edges than he did when he left. 

He hadn’t mourned when she died, not exactly. Whatever loss he had felt was bundled up within his reignited hatred of Lilith’s gang, lovingly adorned with a bow comprised of his thirst for vengeance. Angel had let him grieve in whatever way he chose, and didn’t offer her sympathies. Secretly, she was ashamed at how much relief Nisha’s death had brought her, since it meant that Jack stopped coming back with distant expressions and hollow words. 

Before either of them could say more, Angel’s ECHO lit up with an incoming message. A shiver of unease passed through her, because she knew who it was from, and wasn’t keen on answering it in front of her dad. 

Unfortunately, her hesitation was all Jack needed to zero in. Angel was always prompt in answering business calls and notifications, and she cursed herself as she realized she had drawn too much attention to herself but acting out of character and ignoring the alert. 

“Who’s that?” Jack asked instantly, transforming himself from vulnerable victim to steadfast father in a manner of seconds. 

“It’s, um…” Angel bit her lip, knowing better than to lie, and finished her sentence with a sigh. “It’s Gaige. The girl from Atlas.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, and he picked up the ECHO. Her first instinct was to jerk it out of his hands, but she knew she had _technically_ done nothing wrong, and trying to keep him away would only invite more curiosity. She watched with bated breath as he flipped through their correspondence, which was mostly idle chatter about Deathtrap and Gaige’s personal opinions on the “stupid coffeemaker.”

“Nothing confidential,” Angel promised, still unable to raise her eyes from Jack’s computer. Her hands felt shaky, and she couldn’t figure out why. She hadn’t done a single thing wrong. Right? It was just because Jack was her dad, and her intentions with Gaige were… 

What were they?

Jack stayed silent, still scrolling through the messages. Eventually, he placed it back on the table, resting his hand over it as though she was likely to snatch it and run. 

“You like her,” Jack surmised, and Angel’s heart thudded in her throat. 

“Well, yeah,” she argued. “She’s the first person I’ve met that’s my age. Most of my friends are your--”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She snapped her mouth shut and didn’t answer. She didn’t know what she was supposed to say. Jack didn’t sound disapproving, exactly, but there was no scenario that ended with him being okay with her having a more-than-platonic interest in someone. They were still getting used to combatting her condition, still trying to perfect the lie that she was nothing more than his assistant. They were still coping with losing out on Angel’s childhood, having no solid framework on which to build her future.

A battle was taking place in Jack’s mind as he considered the situation, and Angel let the silence stretch, awaiting judgement. 

“This is your business handle,” Jack said, tapping the ECHO. “Personal messages are to be run through your own ECHO. Is that clear?”

Angel could hardly believe what she heard. Weakly, she nodded, raising her eyes up to meet her dad’s. He still didn’t look pleased, but she could recognize the bid for peace, the avoidance of a fight. Letting any hint of her security go unchecked was a radical decision for him to make, and it was one to be appreciated. 

“Thank you,” she croaked out, trembling with both relief and embarrassment. “I, um… your schedule is all done, and I’ve organized your inboxes by their priority. Is it alright if I head home?”

Jack nodded, finally removing his hand from her ECHO. “Yeah. I’ll meet you there soon. I need to shower before I go through anything else.”

He flapped his hand at her, signifying that he wanted his chair back, and she retreated rather gracelessly, catching her jacket on the desk and fumbling her ECHO. She only made it halfway towards the door before she decided to press her luck, hoping to build upon Jack’s obliging mood and voice something that had been deeply troubling the waters between them.

“Dad? You won’t… you won’t still have them killed, will you?”

Jack sat down heavily in his chair, looking far more weary than Angel had seen him in a long time. He cracked his neck and sighed before allowing his gaze to meet hers. 

“No, baby, I won’t kill them. But I want them off my station, and I want them out of our lives. I want to send him back to the system he came from, and scrub every bit of everything he’s ever touched, until he’s out of my head in every single way possible.” 

She decided not to comment on how Jack’s tirade switched from Atlas as a whole, to just Rhys. Normally, she’d never pass up an opportunity to tease her father, but something about the way he said it sat too heavy in the atmosphere, and her heart ached for their disconnect. Satisfied with Gaige’s safety for the time being, as well as the safety of the others, she left Jack’s office and headed home. 

 

///

 

Rhys stared down at the message that Jack had sent him the previous night. 

 **[RESTRICTED ID]** : My office. 0800. Bring an open mind and shut mouth. 

Rhys tried to be offended, but the relief was hard to ignore. If Jack wanted the air between them to be studious and behaved, Rhys could recognize it as the benefit it was. He would need complete focus if he was going to create the simulation they needed to erode their problem to manageable levels, and Jack’s mere presence would be distracting enough. Rhys worried his composure would collapse completely if he were forced to make conversation. 

The moment they shared in the dilapidated hut still lingered in his mind, nudging it’s way into his waking thoughts like an overly pushy passenger. The taste and thrill of Jack was something not easily forgotten, and Rhys would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested (even _greedy_ ) for more. The thought of being alone in a room all day with the man had his insides twisting in excitement and anxiety, but what would ordinarily be an innocent infatuation was wound dangerously around sharp and painful outside factors. 

How much of this was influenced by the shared consciousness they were burdened with? Were they naturally gravitating towards the other due to an invigorating power balance they ached to test the strain of, or was the Eridian tech that affected their minds urging them to be closer in any way possible? Rhys knew that Jack had always been an interest, a sparkling trophy Rhys would love to claim, but could that be enough to excuse how easily he’d let Jack press against him?

Another equally upsetting speculation was Jack’s broken psyche. This man was damaged product, rejected and betrayed so often that he closed himself off from any semblance of devotion. The only organic thing he seemed to care for was his daughter, who he held close enough to smother. Rhys couldn’t deny there was emotional aspect to his interest in Jack, whether it be admiration or a desire to prove himself worthy, but he was almost positive the feeling wasn’t mutual. Jack saw him as a distractive plaything, something to enjoy until it outlived its usefulness. 

Rhys wasn’t ready to be relegated to that level. 

He focused his mind on the task, dressed himself immaculately in a black silk shirt and matching jacket sans tie, and quietly left the penthouse before his companions awoke. If he were back at Atlas, he’d be ditching the posh dress in favor of a simple button down, possibly even a plain t-shirt if he never intended to leave the lab that day. But here, appearances meant everything, and he had to keep himself enviable at all times. To appear disheveled in front of Hyperion employees was like leaking blood in shark-infested waters. 

Jack was already behind his desk when Rhys arrived, looking contemplative and engrossed at whatever was portrayed across the screen. The set-up of the room had altered slightly, and Rhys made his way over towards the workbench that had placed catty-corner next to Jack’s, figuring it was meant to be his temporary station. His maxtrix was tucked against the side, and they had given him a full 3D interface with which to work. 

Jack only seemed to notice Rhys when he dropped into his supplied desk chair and began booting up the systems. 

“I was about to start without you.”

Rhys glanced at the time. Two minutes before eight. Jack was already picking a fight, after _insisting_ they keep their distance. 

The tells were too easy, really. Jack’s was teetering on the same edge Rhys had been skirting that very morning, and while Rhys tended to wait for the other party to snap, Jack was apparently the type of man to try an assert his control before the situation even began.

Screw it. Rhys would take the challenge, since Jack was so politely offering.  

“I’m early, Jack. Try and focus on something other than me for once -- it’ll help the time go by faster.”

Jack’s hand twitched at his side, as though desperate to send a swing his way, but kept it contained. He swallowed whatever insult he had and avoided Rhys's gaze. 

“It’d be a lot easier if that was in my control. You’re not here to look pretty, so put your head down, shut up, and fix the problem so I can replace you with one of those concubines you’re so sure I have.”

Rhys had _many_ responses to that, but unlike Jack, he was a professional, and knew when to save face. He bit his tongue and turned towards his display, doing a quick scan to make sure there wasn’t a recording capture device lodged somewhere. It wouldn’t be unlike Jack to milk whatever information on Rhys he could get from this forced cooperation, and Rhys sure as hell wasn’t ready to interface with any Hyperion tech directly before guaranteeing its safety. 

Once satisfied, he began to work. The assistance of the ECHOeye was nearly essential in getting the coding done in a manner of days rather than months, and that knowledge was likely the only reason Jack didn’t bitch about Rhys leading the charge. The Eye would formulate a vanilla program, specified only with Rhys's direction, and take some of the more tedious tasks away from human hands. 

Every fifteen minutes or so Rhys would flick another large chunk over to Jack’s monitor to him to fine-tune, and to Rhys's relief, Jack worked at the same level of efficiency that Rhys did. The CEO picked through lines of code to look for errors, narrowed down specific commands to avoid fallacies, and consolidated multiples to a manageable level. He even did it all with a minimal amount of grumbling, and Rhys wasn’t sure what impressed him more: Jack’s programming skills, or his ability to keep his mouth shut for longer than ten minutes.

Two hours passed quickly with no snark from either of them, just diligent working. Rhys nearly forgot where he was, enveloped by the focused intensity programming gave him, and for a moment, his tumultuous relationship with Jack was placed on the backburner -- still simmering, but relatively forgotten in lieu of other things. Now, they simply worked together, absorbed in their shared project. Rhys felt nearly as comfortable as he did back home, since workstation particulars had never mattered too much to him, but he still missed the banter. He missed his associates cracking jokes as they worked, missed the look of wonder and disbelief when he assisted a shell-shocked intern with a particularly frustrating algorithm.

“Rhys? Hello?”

Rhys jolted and turned to find Jack watching him, an amused smile tugging at his features. He promptly shut down the Eye’s coding in order to give Jack more attention, since he’d apparently missed the first half of a conversation. 

“What? Sorry, I didn’t… what?”

Jack didn’t look annoyed, surprisingly. He almost seemed delighted at Rhys's distraction, which was a whole different kind of discomfort. 

“I need to know more about your cybernetics,” Jack explained. “I gotta make sure the code knows how to recognize them, but I usually know what I’m building, kiddo.” He leaned back in his chair to stare at Rhys, legs spread in that stupid, unprofessional denim, and waited patiently for Rhys to answer. 

“Um,” Rhys struggled. He had been ripped rather violently from his coding, something no one but Fiona dared do back at home, and now he was being forced to deal with Handsome Jack himself, right there in the man’s office -- his perpetual battleground. Jack had home field advantage, and Rhys was still scrambling to get his focus back. He shouldn’t have let himself get so drawn into the project.

 _“ Um ?"_   Jack snickered. “C’mon, baby, where’s that snark I’ve been hearing for the past few days? You holding out on me?”

“Pretty sure we decided to shut up today,” Rhys swallowed thickly, annoyed at his own falter. Annoyed at hearing “baby” fall so easily from Jack’s mouth, like he could ever possibly mean it as the endearment it was supposed to be.

“We did,” Jack agreed. “But this is a collaborative thing, isn’t it? And I need the specifics for the cybernetics, Rhysie. Can’t keep coding without ‘em.”

Rhys dug into the archives and pulled up the files on his cybernetics before flicking them over to Jack’s monitor. 

“There,” he declared. “Everything you need. If you copy it to another drive, I’ll know, so don’t try it.”

“You’re the liar here babe, not ol’ Jack.”

But thankfully, Jack turned towards back towards his station and began pouring over the files. Several more minutes passed in silence, and Rhys tried to regain that focus he’d held onto so easily before Jack’s interruption, but it was difficult. Jack’s presence was an undefinable thing. Rhys was aware of him in every sense, from the slight sound of his clothing shifting as he moved, to the way he lingered in Rhys peripheral vision like a distant predator trying to mingle with his prey. Even the smell of Jack’s cologne was somehow amplified, twisted around the faint traces of Pandoran wind that seemed to stick to Jack no matter where he went. 

But somehow, the sensory input wasn’t the overload Rhys figured it would be. Jack’s presence calmed him in a bizarre, peculiar manner, and he felt an ease in co-existing with him that he’d never felt with anyone other than the family he’d dragged here with him. The nerves were still there, and his pulse was a little too heavy in his neck, but he didn’t feel as though he were in _danger_ anymore, and that wasn’t something he knew what to do with. 

He stared at his coding and tried not to think about how much of this was fueled by the forced connection. What emotions could he trust as his own? Would he still be reacting in such a way if Eridium tech hadn’t been beamed into his head, rewiring him to be mentally paired with another human being?

Alright, so sexual attraction to Jack had always been on the table. Rhys could admit _that_ much to himself. And Jack had been ready enough to act upon some similar feelings, at least in the heat of the moment. But was that because of _Rhys,_ or because of Jack’s desire to claim the things that impressed him? Did sexuality play any part in a shared consciousness? There had been no documentation on reproduction of Eridians, as they were ethereal, eternal beings, but how much of their history could he possibly know? Rhys tried to recall everything that he had learned from the Vaults, all the lore he managed to get his hands on, but none of it offered guidance for this scenario. 

“You’re bullshitting me.”

Rhys, bewildered, and not as deeply invested in his coding as he ought to have been, turned to look at Jack. The man was glaring at his display as though it personally offended him. 

“What?” Rhys asked, trying to peer at whatever was on Jack’s screen. 

Jack swiveled his chair around to stare at Rhys. “How did your dumb ass manage to implement an entire nervous system that works with your organic one?”

“What? You mean the sensory receptors? Those are the standard for Atlas cybernetics--”

Jack stood quickly and yanked Rhys up alongside him, effectively cutting off the explanation. He turned Rhys's cybernetic arm over between his hands as if looking for some flaw in an enchantment. Rhys resolutely ignored the spark of recognition and clench in his gut as Jack touched him, as though his body was welcoming back a long-absent loved one. 

“That’s stupid,” Jack mumbled furiously. _"S_ _tupid._ How much does this shit cost?”

Jack was impressed, scowling at Rhys's arm the way he was. Robotics wasn’t Jack’s field of expertise, but even _he_ had to know the kind of advancement that seamlessly combining an organic and manufactured nervous system would take. Rhys smirked as Jack refused to meet his eyes. 

“Why? Are you considering purchasing some of my products? I regret to admit that I don’t offer a competitor’s discount, but--”

“So you can feel this? You can actually feel my hands, right now?”

Rhys's opened his mouth, and snapped it shut. Jack was holding his arm almost tenderly, running two fingers down the inside of Rhys's cybernetic as though intent on proving it was all a sham. The sensory receptors were working just as they should, and Rhys suppressed a shudder at being touched in a way that so closely mirrored intimacy.  

Honestly, the lack of sensory in Atlas cybernetics had never been a problem. It hadn’t even occurred to Rhys to add them until one of his lead techs, a woman who had her left hand replaced due to car accident, mentioned that she had trouble doing her daughter’s hair in the morning without being able to feel the strands. And once a notion planted itself in Rhys's head, he had trouble focusing on anything else until he could make the idea a reality. 

Unfortunately, Jack was currently the most prominent thing on Rhys's docket. 

“Yeah,” he answered mutely, all higher forms of wordplay flitting away from cognizance faster than Rhys's dignity was hitting the floor. Rhys cleared his throat as Jack ran his fingers back up the cybernetic, watching in fascination as Rhys's fingers twitched in response. “It’s a miracle that nothing was permanently damaged,” Rhys continued, “what with the way your team damn near ripped it off.”

Jack’s eyes flicked up to his, thumbs tracing the inside of Rhys's wrist, and Rhys felt a hot surge of frustration for the way that simple gesture made his insides tumble around gracelessly. 

“You frightened them,” Jack admitted softly, a smirk playing across his lips as though Rhys's intimidation was the system’s best kept secret. “Rich Atlas boy, filled to the brim with tech they can’t understand. The moment you put that gun to my neck was the moment my soldiers started to respect you. And when we came back up, knocked out cold, you better believe they thought you had something to do with it, baby. Ain’t nothing like you around here.”

Rhys swallowed thickly, uncomfortably aware that for the first time in their short relationship, he was being rendered speechless -- possibly even _complimented --_ by Handsome Jack. He needed to pull himself together, tape back all the pieces that Jack was slowly taking apart as he stepped closer into Rhys's personal space. 

“The Eye, the arm...” Jack began, running his gaze up and down Rhys's body. “Any other robo parts I should know about?”

Rhys saw his opening and took it, pulling himself from the melting figure of submission to something a little more familiar. 

“No. I’m happy to admit that nothing else needed to be enhanced.”

He gave Jack a pointed look, trying to hide his smirk, and Jack’s eyes flashed dangerously. But once again, where Rhys was coy and willing to wait out his opponent, Jack operated differently, prone to instantaneous action and quick resolution. 

Rhys was quickly learning that Jack was not a patient man. 

With a sharp sigh Jack moved his hand to cradle around Rhys's hip, tugging him closer, all pretense of hiding his intentions forgotten. Rhys went willingly, because he couldn’t think of a single reason not to. He nearly preened as Jack ran his other hand up Rhys's chest, thumb tracing the open collar of his silk shirt before circling around his throat in a loose grip. Heat was left behind in the wake of that path, as though Jack’s fingers were reigniting the parts of him that had long burnt out. He titled Rhys head up towards him, fingertips brushing the nape of his neck, and Rhys couldn’t help the shiver as Jack’s fingers tightened just enough to be possessive. 

“Why does it feel so fuckin’ good to touch you,” Jack whispered, leaning in to run his lips across the smooth stretch of skin below Rhys's ear. The question was almost accusatory, as though Jack thought Rhys had been dosing him with something beautiful and deadly, and Jack was too high on the effects to care about his intentions.  

Rhys thought about that shared wave, and figured it might not be too off the mark. Rhys felt drugged on Jack’s presence, with every touch sending lightning jumping under his skin, and the magnetic pull to bury himself in the man before him was overwhelming. As though he were fighting instinct.

Determined to not be the only one completely taken apart, Rhys hooked his fingers into Jack’s belt-loops and tugged their hips together, earning a hiss of appreciation from Jack at his assertion. The pitching thrum of _want_ that was coiling tightly in Rhys's gut seemed to double, and he could feel Jack’s pulse as though it were his own, pounding in tandem.

All it took was Jack turning Rhys's chin in his fingers and their lips met in a kiss; perhaps not as rushed and forceful as it had been the day before, but the same urgency was still bolstering their confidence and recklessness. Jack’s hand refused to leave the curve of Rhys's neck, lingering on the last threads of control he seemed to have, but Rhys was a weak man for power, and they fed from one another’s energies far too easily. 

Jack, in his infinite sprawl of barely controlled chaos, still clamored after the need to assert his authority, having been denied it so many times in his past. Rhys had seen enough to know that. But where Jack was ready to take, Rhys was ready to _give_. He was endlessly tired of searching for something a little rougher around the edges. He was happy with the man he was, but Atlas was a tamed monster, and Rhys ached for the adrenaline of capture. It was why he tore after Vaults personally, and why he surrounded himself with his wild, unpredictable family. 

It’s why he craved having something Handsome Jack wanted; something that Jack felt Rhys needed to submit to him. 

“You want me, kitten?” Jack teased softly, pulling away from Rhys's lips to mouth at the edges of the blue tattoos peeking through Rhys collar. 

The sound of Jack’s voice, husky with arousal that wound alluringly around the new pet-name sent something molten and heavy through Rhys's core. His dick was already pressing compulsively against his pants, but Rhys found himself more drawn to the feel of Jack’s pulse against his, the whisper of breath as Jack exhaled against him when Rhys rut up into him teasingly. The press of Jack’s body was so deliciously warm and satisfying, and Rhys wanted it like a man obsessed. 

“You kissed _me,_ ” Rhys reminded him, tilting his head back as Jack ran his fingers through his hair, tugging gently. _"B_ _oth_ times.”

Jack admonished him with a sharper tug, and Rhys gasped softly despite himself. Jack merely held him there, bodies pressed close as Jack exposed Rhys neck in submission. 

“Such a mouth on you,” Jack reprimanded. “Can’t figure out if I want to smack you or fuck you.”

An inviting shiver crawled up Rhys spine at the image. They were so far past the line Rhys told himself he wouldn’t cross, but as Jack rolled his hips invitingly into Rhys, he found he didn’t care. He should’ve realized that Jack would pick a fight in any and every battleground -- and Rhys had shown his cards the moment he walked smugly into Jack’s office and coyly propositioned him. 

Rhys laughed lightly, one hand running through the hairs on Jack’s head as the CEO bit gently against the skin of Rhys's chest. “If you can’t figure that out, you’re far more idiotic then I thought.”

Jack growled, and in an instant Rhys was turned, manhandled, and pressed against Jack’s desk, forced to face that long stretch of water-lined pathway that led to the world outside of Jack’s office door. 

“You forget your place, baby,” Jack crowded behind him, hand on the back of Rhys neck to bend him just slightly, like a sapling against the storm. Rhys's pang of embarrassment went unnoticed over the throbbing interest in his pants, and _damn_ Jack for figuring him out so fucking quickly. “You’re in Handsome Jack’s office sweetheart. You’re on my station, above my _planet,_ and out here, I do what I want, _whenever_ I want. You should start showing me some respect.”

Jack kept one hand between Rhys shoulder blades, more of a reminder than it was a warning, and Rhys found that he didn’t need the motivation -- he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The sound of Jack undoing his belt shot a bolt of trepidation up his spine, but it was so similar to the anticipation he got when he opened a Vault, so familiar in it’s all-encompassing anxious excitement that he _needed_ it on some instinctual, Pavlovian level.

“Pretty little Atlas punk,” Jack continued, pulling his pistol from the holster so he could better undo his pants. He placed it on the table beside Rhys, a streamlined piece of history that failed to act as the caution tape Rhys knew it ought to have been. “You come here, arrogant and naive, and try to make the rules?” Jack’s hand gripped Rhys hip harshly to grind up against him, and thanks to the telltale lack of clothing, Rhys could _finally_ feel what awaited him. “I’m king here, baby, when will you learn that?”

Jack’s hand slid around to undue Rhys belt, and Rhys allowed himself to be pushed forward more until he was supported by his forearms across Jack’s beautifully polished desk. For a hazy moment, as his thoughts tried to catch up to what was happening, Rhys wondered how many people Jack had bent over this very desk. Or, on the flip side, how many times a worker bot had to come in here to scrub the lacquer until it shined again, cleansed from the blood of the last Hyperion employee that had fucked up enough to earn Jack’s wrath.  

Once Jack got a hold of Rhys's cock, he found he didn’t care. 

It was all he could do to prevent banging his head into the desk. The startled sound that escaped his throat didn’t improve his humiliation, but if the way Jack groaned softly into his neck was any indication, he wasn’t the only one experiencing relief at finally being able to touch. Rhys was spiraling through deja vu, feeling as though he were back in the Vault and energy was resonating around him, driving him to mindlessly seek out things he wasn’t meant to have. 

“Nothing to say, Atlas?” Jack ground out. “That’s fine. I’ve got another use for your smart mouth. Open.”

Jack brought two fingers up to Rhys's lips and Rhys did as he was told, letting the two digits slide into his mouth, knowing that Jack was at least giving him this one kindness. Jack’s hands were big, and it had been a while since Rhys had been on the receiving end of this kind of sexual interaction -- he would need the preparation. Rhys soaked the fingers as best as he could, and Jack pulled away slowly, as if reluctant to move on so soon. 

“You strolled into my office like you belong here, Rhysie,” Jack continued, forever in love with the sound of his own voice. “Walked right up to this desk I’m bending you over.”

For emphasis, Jack pressed down between Rhys's shoulders and urged him backwards, pulling Rhys's pants down just far enough to press those two slicked fingers against him. The jolt finally loosened Rhys's tongue, and he had to bite down on his lip before speaking to inhibit the moan that Jack’s dominating presence elicited. 

“I do belong here. I’m your COO,” Rhys responded, swallowing the gasp as Jack pressed inside to harshly to open him up. He pushed back against the fingers, determined to ride out the burn so he could fully enjoy the real thing. Just to gain some of his dignity back, he added a smart-mouthed “Or did you forget, sir?” and was rewarded with a hard thrust of Jack’s fingers. 

“Watch it, Rhysie, or I’ll have you calling me ‘sir’ as you beg me to get you off. _God_ , I fuckin’ hate you,” Jack mumbled furiously into Rhys's neck, bending over Rhys to press them together close once more, completely dismissing his spiteful declaration. 

“I don’t need you to like me,” Rhys reminded him with shaky breaths. Jack was coming way too close to hitting something inside him that would reduce him to weak knees and pleading, and he needed to maintain some kind of standing before that happened. “I’d argue that I -- _fuck…_ I made way more progress pissing you off. Do you have a Hyperion buzzword for this collaboration? Synergy, Impact, _Convergence..._ ”

Jack pulled out of Rhys furiously and lined himself up, as though it might be punishment, and Rhys shivered. He could feel the press of Jack against him, warm and hard, as the CEO leaned into him once more. 

“You got a real fancy vocabulary, kitten. Lotta big words. Let’s see how many of them I can make you forget.”

Rhys reacted a little less appropriately than any sane person should when Handsome Jack wrapped his hand around Rhys's neck for leverage. He muffled a groan and arched his back, giving Jack an optimal  position to push in. All the blood that wasn’t currently keeping Rhys dick hard and attentive swam dizzyingly to his head at the first feelings of Jack pressing inside him, and the rush of endorphins mirrored a cracked dam. The deeper Jack sank into him, the more of Rhys's body keened in instant gratification. It was as though his nerve-endings had been spring loaded and rigged to respond to Jack’s touch, and by the time Jack fully seated himself deep inside, Rhys was was shaking in a satisfaction that was so otherworldly, he was half convinced he’d been drugged.

Jack moved his hand to wrap around Rhys's middle, fitting himself closer despite their layers of clothing. _"F_ _uck,_ babe,” he groaned, and Rhys could feel the slight tremor of Jack’s legs against his. 

Rhys was right there with him. Granted, it had been a long time since he’d had a male lover, but he didn’t remember there being quite this much _charge_ in the feeling of being filled. His skin goosebumped despite the heat between them, and his arousal was hitting peaks that were threatening to spill the pleading words that hung precariously on his tongue. Even the air around them felt muted, as though they’re suspended in time and functioning outside of the reality they’d know. For a single moment, they became the gravity of the worlds around them, pulling every physical sensation of their transcendent novelty into the gravitational pull that surrounded them. 

Jack paused, his chest rising and falling heavily. “That… that’s different, right?”

Rhys didn’t have to ask what he meant. It was _extraordinarily_ different. But Rhys was, at his core, a selfish brat, and he could worry about hive minds and Eridium bullshit at some other time. Right now, he was on the precipice of having the kind of sex he’d only dreamed about since he first laid unwitting eyes on a Handsome Jack advert, and not a damn thing was going to keep him from seeing it through. 

“Of course it’s different,” Rhys said, his voice wavering at the edges because holy _shit_ was Jack big, and the sting was still watering the corners of his eyes. He reached behind him to pull on Jack’s shirt, bringing Jack close enough to kiss him dirty, grinding back against Jack’s cock just to swallow the resulting groan. “It’s always different with me, Hyperion. The word you’re looking for is _perfect._ ”

Jack regained his composure swiftly and shoved Rhys back down into the desk with a growl. Rhys barely had time to push himself back up on his elbows before Jack began a brutal pace, slamming into Rhys as though he could fuck the sass out of him. 

Rhys cursed and tried to find grip on the desk, but there was nothing he could do except let Jack press him against the edge and take what he was given. He hadn’t let himself fully adjust to Jack’s girth before pissing the CEO off, and the burn had him gritting his teeth as though he were taking a lashing. Jack’s hands on his hips were a searing brand, his fingers digging bruises that Rhys would wear in clandestine pride for the following week. 

 _"Fuck,_ ” Rhys finally bit out, fingertips catching on the cool lacquer. “Jack--”

Jack didn’t answer with words, his breathing too heavy as he focused on sliding into Rhys, but he loosened the grip of one hand and ran it up under Rhys's silk shirt. They traced up his spine, jolting slightly with the hard rhythm, until he altered course and mapped along Rhys's ribs, fingers coming around to toy with Rhys's nipple until a broken, muffled cry broke loose of Rhys's lips. 

“That’s it, kitten,” Jack breathed, his pace slowing  just enough that the slap of skin wouldn’t drown out any of Rhys's half-hidden sounds. “Let me hear you. This is what you wanted, right? The moment you walked in here, you were practically _begging_ for it.”

For emphasis, he let his cock drag languidly out of Rhys, only to push back in just as slowly, determined to tease. Rhys chest was tight as he withheld his reactions, but his body was a coiled mess, half torn between needing to put them on equal ground, and just letting Jack fuck him dirty, promising to make whatever sounds his CEO wanted him to hear. 

Pride and selfishness were a dangerous mixture though, and Rhys decided to simply take what he wanted, since Jack was offering. He pushed back against Jack, sighing in relief as the burn began to fade. He started his own rhythm, using Jack as nothing more than a toy, unable to help the small whispers to relief that fell from his lips every time he went deep enough to feel Jack’s balls up against him. 

Jack, surprisingly, didn’t stop him, and a heavy hand came up to tangle in his hair, pulling Rhys head up to expose his throat to the desk. A spark of wanton need shot up Rhys spine, and he whined in frustrated appreciation at Jack’s treatment, moving his body back harder to increase his pace. Jack’s free hand went to his hip to help guide him, thumb running up and down the small of his back. 

“That’s it, baby… _fuck_. Just like that.” He breathed a shuddering exhale, far more indicative of his arousal than that infuriating lexicon of self-righteousness would have Rhys's believe. “This is a good look for you, Atlas.”

Rhys grunted in annoyance and ceased his movements, organic arm shaking slightly at the exertion of holding himself up. Jack laughed breathlessly, fingers tightening cruelly in Rhys's hair. 

“What, you didn’t like that? Gonna hold out on me? That’s fine. That’s _so_ fine, sweetheart.”

He moved to grip Rhys's hips with both hands, easing himself forward until he was buried to the hilt. Rhys gasped softly, since Jack had far better leverage than Rhys could hope to have, and the sound seemed to waver some of Jack’s confidence. 

“...Feel so good, Rhysie,” he mumbled one hand stroking up Rhys's back again, as though enraptured. But the moment was gone quickly, and Jack began another hard pace, practically sliding Rhys's body up the desk as he slammed into him.

Rhys held on as best he could, his own cock leaking with unheeded arousal as Jack repeatedly set stars alight in his vision. He was so gone, so focused on the building feeling of orgasm at the base of his gut, that he nearly missed the ping of Jack’s intercom. Liquid terror slapped him like a cold shower as one of Jack’s hands left his hip with the intention of answering the beeping, blinking thing. 

“Jack--” Rhys started, trying to push himself up, but Jack curled his other hand around his abdomen, encasing Rhys against his body. 

“Shh, pumpkin,” Jack crooned, following a few shallow thrusts with one deep enough to make Rhys groan involuntarily. “You wouldn’t want to be heard like this, would you? Powerful, dignified Atlas, impaled on Hyperion’s cock?”

Rhys briefly entertained the idea of turning around and slugging Jack with his cybernetic, but the curl of re-awakening heat at the taboo inflection of Jack’s words was hard to ignore. He hadn’t denied his interest when Jack had yanked him forward by his tie so many days ago, and he couldn’t deny how his dick twitched at partaking in something so scandalous that it would never fly over in the Edens. 

“Ten seconds,” Rhys warned, breathless, allowing his ECHOeye to gleam in warning. “Ten seconds, and then I fry that intercom whether you’re done or not.”

He could _feel_ Jack’s smirk behind him, even if he couldn’t see it. Jack’s emotions were as prominent and tangible as his own, and he couldn’t remember being so in tune with another human being before, sexual cohesion or not. Without giving an audible answer, Jack pressed the screen for his intercom, easing his pace to something quieter and choosing instead to torture Rhys by gently flicking Rhys's hardened nipples as he accepted the call. 

“Handsome Jack,” he greeted the mystery caller casually, pinching Rhys hard enough to elicit a full body shudder from him; something that had Jack leaning back down across him to groan quietly into his shoulder. 

 _"Handsome Jack, Sir, hello,”_ came a familiar voice, deep and slightly cautious. _“This is Hugo Vasquez, from Securities Propaganda?”_

"Vasquez, right,” Jack began, standing back up to take a handful of Rhys's ass in both palms and squeezing appreciatively. “I believe all departments were told that I’d be doin’ some real important stuff from eight until two everyday, and not to disturb me. You think you’re fuckin’ special, Wallethead?”

A thumb from Jack’s hand traced down Rhys's skin to where Jack was still pushing into him with a calm efficiency. He lingered there for a moment as Vasquez stuttered, trying to find all the tender, sensitive spots that would make Rhys squirm, and Rhys had to bite down hard on the silk covering his arm to avoid the embarrassing moan caught in his throat. 

_“Of course, sir. I’m terribly sorry. But I need to get your approval on these rewrites, and I thought you might be interested in going over them together.”_

Rhys couldn’t help the snort at the blatant brownnosing, and Jack slapped his ass lightly in playful admonishment. The momentary levity was gone as quickly as it came, and Rhys's amusement vanished as Jack casually accepted Vasquez’s offer. 

“Of course, buddy. Two brains, yadda yadda. Come on up!”

_“Thank you, sir!”_

The line disconnected, and Rhys turned his head to glare at Jack. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t, because he wasn’t ready for the sight that awaited him. Jack’s hair was suffering from the exertion, half flopped across his face in a way that made him look animalistic and wild. At some point, likely when he was undoing his belt, Jack had removed that revolting Hyperion sweater, leaving him in nothing but a plain white button down, far more casual than anything Rhys had been gifted so far. Strong forearms were protruding from tight white cuffs where Jack had rolled them up, and his hands were gripping Rhys's hips possessively, like he was a thing to be owned. He had no trouble meeting Rhys's eyes, a smirk sliding across his lips as Rhys's furious expression, and the fucker had the _audacity_ to reach down and cup Rhys's balls gently. 

“You--” Rhys started, anger nearly siphoned from him as a sharp bolt of pleasure was added to that tense coil in his gut. _"J_ _ack_ , fuck... -- If you let anyone see me like this, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

Rhys meant it. He’d sooner put a pistol to Jack’s skull and deal with the consequences than let the galaxy at large know that he’d been taken over a Hyperion desk. With the way that Jack fucked into him harder at the threat, eyes sparking in delicious interest, Rhys knew Jack had taken him seriously. He tried not to think about how fucked that made them both. 

“Oh, I believe you baby,” Jack huffed a laugh, letting himself pick the pace back up now that the intercom had fallen silent. “But if I’m being honest, you feel _way_ too good to stop. So do what you gotta do, kitten.”

Rhys groaned, both in arousal and frustration, and pushed himself up off the table until he could support himself with just his organic arm. The change of positions had Jack cursing a soft string of expletives behind him, a stutter in his hips, and Rhys couldn’t help the small grin of satisfaction at knowing he could reduce Handsome Jack to such a blubbering mess. 

“Last chance, Jack,” Rhys warned shakily, knowing that it wouldn’t take Vasquez long to traverse the stretch of hallway from the foyer to Jack’s office. “Tell him to turn around, or you’re dead.”

Because truthfully, Rhys wasn’t an exhibitionist for anyone other than his partner. And knowing that a Hyperion executive was just a few seconds away from walking into Jack’s office and watching Rhys get fucked? It didn’t tick off any checkmarks for him. And somehow, with some half-baked knowledge scratched into the back of his skull, he knew Jack had no intention of sharing this moment with a third party either, and both of them were reaching the same conclusions in their heads. He didn’t know how he knew, he couldn’t tell where the feeling came from, but Jack was _waiting_ for something, and Rhys wanted so badly to deliver. 

Jack, in the meantime, wouldn’t be deterred by Rhys's vague threats. Rhys could feel how close Jack was, how the snapping of his hips had gone from leisurely to purposeful, losing their teasing nature to something more urgent, a chase for completion. 

“Do it, kitten,” Jack groaned into his neck, his free hand utilizing their new position to reach down and stroke across Rhys's cock. Rhys, choking back a cry of relief at _finally_ being touched again, almost missed Jack’s plea of, “Let me see you work, baby.” 

It clicked into place so easily, and Rhys knew what Jack wanted just as the office door eased open and Vasquez walked inside, grinning at his VIP invitation. 

He only got a few steps in before the smile fell from his face like it had been melted off. The datapad slipped from his fingers and his eyes grew wide at the scene before him, too shocked to formulate a response.

Rhys would like to say he acted on impulse, but a larger part of him knew what his intentions had been all along. Even if Jack’s survival hadn’t been so deeply entwined with his own, Rhys could never kill the man behind him. He could never deface Hyperion’s golden shrine, especially once he knew how beautifully Jack’s cock fit inside him. 

And Jack, the fucking bastard, was giving Rhys the perfect out for his empty threats. He was setting Rhys up so perfectly, and hell -- even if it was for Jack’s own enjoyment, Rhys couldn’t deny the invigorating dichotomy of wielding power while simultaneously having it utterly taken from him. 

Rhys's cybernetic hand closed around the pistol Jack had left out on the table, and it was less than a moment before he had it raised, using his Eye to target Vasquez’s head even as Jack savagely fucked into him from behind. Rhys could barely feel the trigger pull over the mounting heat as Jack’s fingers jerked him off in perfect rhythm, but the force of the shot travelled up through his shoulder to meet the exact point where Jack was sinking his teeth gently into his skin. 

Jack’s appreciative groan sent a shiver of pride through Rhys's body, and for a brief, beautiful moment all he could comprehend was how _satisfying_ it was to reaffirm his importance to Hyperion. How he had been able to act with the exact amount of ruthlessness he craved -- and the exact amount required to send Handsome Jack into a worshipful craze, pressing up against him from every point of contact, like he might be able to sink harder into Rhys if he could only get _closer_. 

Vasquez staggered backwards from the force of the bullet, his eyes still so wide and disbelieving. He fell to his knees first, just as the neat little hole Rhys had drilled through his skull began to rivlet with thin tracks of blood. Finally, he crashed forward fully, his face smashing hard against the polished floor as his limbs contorted in an undignified slump. Rhys watched the body fall but didn’t relinquish the pistol; though Jack didn’t seem to mind -- if anything, the knowledge that Rhys was still armed sent him spiraling further away from coherency as his free hand trailed up to wrap around Rhys's throat. 

 _"Fuck_ , I hate you Atlas,” he declared, voice heavy and dripping with arousal. He pressed himself as close to Rhys as he could get, letting that strange electric charge sharpen their need for climax as it roved across their skin. “So perfect like this, so hot. Say my name baby, c’mon, please--”

Jack was fucking into him too fast, and Rhys was teetering on the edges of his self-control. Jack had just let Rhys murder one of Hyperion’s department heads in Jack’s _own_ office. He had _wanted_ to see Rhys exert authority and brutality in a way Rhys never thought to market, in a way that wasn’t _needed_ at Atlas, and it was just as much of a drug as Jack’s whispered words of praise were. 

“Jack,” he gasped out, “Jack -- _please_ , fuck --” The hand around his throat tightened, and Rhys knew he loved it, even if he didn’t want to admit it. It was that final display of possessiveness, Jack’s blatant attempt to claim him as though he were something to be cherished, that did him in. His vision whited out as he came, his whole body tensing as lights sparked up a storm inside his head, and distantly, he could still feel Jack’s aching need like a backhand passion. Too many sensations were piling up against him, -- relief, ecstasy, adoration, _need,_ covetousness -- and Rhys couldn’t decipher his own emotions from Jack’s. It didn't matter, in the end, and he spilled himself over Jack’s hand with a choked off cry and an absence of shame. 

Jack worked him through it, supporting him with strong, battle-tested arms so Rhys wouldn’t collapse face first into the desk. Words of encouragement were slipping from Jack’s lips, reminding Rhys that he was perfect, he was so good for Jack, so hot and tight and _just like that,_ squeeze tighter, kitten--

Jack shuddered behind him, body coming undone as he groaned and trembled against Rhys's back. Jack gripped him _hard_ , spilling inside of Rhys with a final few potent thrusts, letting the fingers around Rhys throat tighten, loosen, and gently stroke down his skin as the final wave crashed upon them with the same ferocity that had sent them spiraling in the first place. 

And then, it was quiet, nothing but the sound of labored breathing and the trickle of water features.  

Rhys, body wrung out and satisfied, pressed his cheek into the cold desk beneath him and struggled not to drift away. 

 


	10. the art of opportunism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting date switched back to Mondays, sorry guys. 
> 
> Thank you again for all your wonderful comments. I was giggling to myself while I read your various reactions to Vasquez's death, so thank you all for that entertainment <3

_///_

_I'm not trippin', this just an excuse_

_for me to dick down a little bit of the truth_

_We killing time and time's killing us,_

_so I won't waste mine tryna grip a grudge_

_///_

 

 

Jack pulled out as soon as the pulse of orgasm began to fade, and Rhys visibly shuddered beneath him at the loss. Jack tried to withhold a smile, but the edges of his lips twisted regardless. He’d always loved knowing how well he’d fucked someone else, and the Atlas poster boy was no exception; hell, if anything, he was Jack’s greatest conquest to date.

Though, Jack would be dead before he let the smug prick figure that out. 

He stuffed himself delicately back into his pants, watching as Rhys gingerly pulled himself up from the desk. Atlas's legs were shaking violently, and he looked half ready to fall back against Jack’s support, but the cybernetic helped burden his weight as he stood fully, glancing around for something. 

“Gimme,” he said, motioning childishly for Jack’s sweater. 

Jack scoffed. “Go to hell.”

But Rhys just glared at him, perfectly coiffed hair falling in gentle wisps around his face, and something in Jack’s chest lurched at the sight. His skin was still fizzing at their proximity, as though Rhys was a glass-encased plasma ball, and Jack was itching to run his fingers across him just to feel that energy spike in response. His throat was tight, and he had to turn away and grab his sweater just to avoid leaning in and kissing up along Rhys' neck, avoid letting himself sink into that contentment, that post-fuck lethargy that begged for contact. 

“Here,” he said, handing Rhys his sweater and turning away. “Trash it when you’re done, fuck if I’m wearing it again after that.”

“Your fault, not mine,” Rhys grumbled back, and as Jack tried to straighten his clothing he could see Rhys discreetly trying to wipe away any evidence that still lingered between his thighs. The edges of that blue tattoo were just barely visible, teasing the room when Rhys' shirt rode up, and Jack hated how badly he wanted to find out how much skin it actually covered. He _hated_   that he wanted to pull Rhys up against him, run his hands along every smooth inch of skin he’d been too focused to truly enjoy, and take the time to _really_ break him down. 

He shook himself and pressed the intercom that Rhys, thankfully, hadn’t fried. Angel picked up quickly, as she always did. 

_“Sir?”_

“I need a cleanup crew in my office,” he announced, all business formalities. He glanced at Vasquez's body across the other end of the office, eyes still vacant and surprised like he was waiting for the punchline of some horrific joke. “Single body, standard mess.”

He could hear the rustle of Angel’s chair as she likely stood in alarm. _“Did you--”_

“No,” he interrupted, determined to calm her before Rhys could overhear and get ideas about how much he mattered. Luckily, the boy had wandered off towards Jack’s private bathroom, still stumbling slightly as he walked. “Just Vasquez. He didn’t heed your little email about not disturbing me.”

 _“I heard the authorization,”_ Angel mumbled, as though she had to make up an excuse for letting Vasquez through. _“I didn’t stop him when he came in because of it. I’m sorry if--”_

“It’s fine, Angel. Just send the crew up.”

_“...Right. Hey, um, I was about to order lunch, did you want something?”_

Jack glanced at the time, then at their desks, where their budding program was still in its infancy. They had a lot of work ahead of them, and their… _distraction_ hadn’t helped. 

“Yeah. Just get me that sandwich -- you know, the one that’s mostly bacon?”

_“Right. The early death. And Rhys?”_

Jack glanced back, but the only hint of Rhys in the vicinity was the running water from the bathroom faucet. Part of him detested doing anything for the stuck up bastard that might be misconstrued as kindness, but an even larger part of him knew that Rhys would be insufferable to deal with if he was grumpy from hunger and a grumbling stomach. 

“I dunno, just…” Fuck, this was stupid. What was Rhys, his date? “Whatever’s healthy. Pasta, maybe, cause that kid could use the carbs. Make it spicy, I guess. And tea. But unsweetened. And also some coffee, but just black, no sugar or cream. " He stopped abruptly, feeling unusually awkward. "...That’s -- that’s it.”

Angel paused, either writing it down or judging Jack very, very harshly. _“O...okay. Got it, I guess.”_

Jack hung up. It was rude, and he’d no doubt hear about it from Angel later, but his mind was operating on overdrive and he needed to catch up. The words that had just tumbled from his mouth had no business doing so, but there they were regardless, whispering themselves into existence without Jack’s permission. Who gave a flying shit what the little fuck liked to eat, anyway? 

Jack threw himself in his chair and carded a hand through his hair, trying to ignore his shaky fingers. He needed to focus. He needed to build this code and start work on undoing this ancient Eridium bullshit so he could get Atlas _off_ his station and out of his head. Only then could the company fuck off right back to the Edens, where Northcutt could cozy up in his stupid little throne--

His vision swam, and that stupid little throne came into view. A single, expensive office chair in an vast and pristine office. Instead of Rhys though, the old Atlas President, Henderson, was perched upon it, surrounded by medals and weapon prototypes as he stared at Jack, half-terrified, half-furious. Only Jack wasn’t himself -- No, he’d had enough of these dreams by now to realize it was Rhys he was inhabiting. If the cybernetic hadn’t made it obvious enough, the disdain he felt inside for the tech on display was the final confirmation; Rhys hated a man who took pride in the things he hadn’t earned. 

Secretly, Jack agreed with him there. 

The sky behind Henderson was pitch black, the sun having gone down long ago to give way to the dead of night. The encroaching darkness cast shadows across the office that seemed to play into the ominous atmosphere, and if the way Henderson was staring at him, like he was something that had escaped its tether and binds, the environment was giving him a crucial edge.

“I know all about the slander you’ve been spreading,” Henderson spat at him, the lack of sleep covering the area under his eyes in dingy, pasty skin. “However you feel about our direction doesn’t change the fact that this is _my_ company, and the decisions rest with myself and the board.”

Rhys placed his hands gently on the desk, leaning in to loom over Henderson. Rhys knew that a man his size wasn’t intimidating, but his brand new ECHOeye filled in the gaps his lithe frame couldn’t cover. It was a novelty, and it made him menacing to a potential enemy, especially when he allowed it to gleam in the darkness, sparking a sense of superiority that Henderson would never acknowledge in any other setting. 

“Then fire me,” Rhys demanded. “You could manufacture a reason, if you truly wanted to. My departure could be seen as solid step for transparency within Atlas -- but you wouldn’t dare, would you?” He tapped his cybernetic fingers against the glass of the desk, allowing the sound to startle a wince from Henderson. Rhys felt the heat in chest add a fiery distemper to his words, and couldn’t bring himself to hate it. “This may be _your_ company, but your employees? They’re _mine_ , Henderson. And they’ve been mine for years. Your brilliant Atlas breakthroughs are _mine,_ your newfound success is _mine,_ and this company’s future is entirely dependant upon _me.”_

Henderson swallowed thickly but didn’t argue, and Rhys couldn’t help the small smirk that spread across his lips at the admission. All this time, and Henderson had been _afraid_ of Rhys more than anything. He’d been worried that Rhys would finally realize his potential. The hate and dismissal that Henderson plagued Rhys with for _years_  had stemmed from Henderson’s revolt at playing second fiddle, despite his title. 

The fear of replacement had followed so easily. 

“Go ahead and fire me, Henderson,” Rhys threatened, too far gone on his bottled anger to deflect any of his emotions. His own voice was low and rough in his ears. “Declare me an enemy and plaster my name across these halls -- see how many are loyal to you after that. I _will_ cement my name here in Atlas, and I’ll do it through the allocation of your assets, or I’ll do it from _that_ chair. Take your fucking pick.”

 _That_ seemed to get Henderson’s attention, and his face twisted as he stared Rhys down. Tensions in the room skyrocketed as Henderson’s quiet rage matched his own. 

“Is that the best you’ve got to scare me? You may have people on your side, but _I_ still hold the authority here.” He snorted, as if Rhys behavior was pathetic at best. “You think you have everything planned out, don’t you? That you’ll leave and find yourself an investor, build yourself up?” He gestured furiously at Rhys, fingers shaking in anger and apprehension. “You’re a fool, Northcutt, and your dinky little modifications won’t save you once you realize that _no one_ wants you in charge. You’re an asset, and _nothing_ more! You’re a little man with paper degrees and cute words -- you’re useless! You’re replaceable! Companies need _leaders,_ someone who makes difficult decisions -- and you, kid, you’re no leader. You’re softer than I _ever_ was.”

Rhys felt the words like a blade, slicing into his insecurities to let them bleed out upon the desk, and quickly decided that he’d had more than enough of Henderson’s belittlement. It had taken him years to drive out that kind of denigration, and he wasn’t about to fall victim to it tonight.  In a flash, he pulled the pistol from where he'd had it tucked it into the waistband against his back and aimed it directly at Henderson’s skull. The Atlas president, for all his talk about not being soft, jerked backwards in alarm as his face turned ashen. 

_"Shit --”_

“You knew this was coming,” Rhys breathed softly, feeling the climax of their story reaching its peak as he watched Henderson’s eyes widen with the influx of dread that Rhys was so intently supplying. Rhys himself was petrified, his own hands shaking as he swam in the complete disbelief at his own actions, but he needed to keep that emotion out of his voice. He needed to play the role. Part of him had truly hoped that Henderson could be swayed out of his seat, but that was the same foolishness that had plagued his career thus far, and things _needed_ to change. Fiona and Sasha, new as they were to Atlas, had told him to expect this, and if he was going to play the corporate game, he needed to learn the hard truths. 

So did Henderson.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Rhys elaborated. “You barely leave your office, and you have a guard detail with you everywhere you go. You’re terrified of me, of the ghosts of your decisions, and I think it’s time you admit that you deserve what’s coming.”

Henderson’s right hand was slowly inching towards the underside of his desk, and Rhys caught it instantly, zeroing in on movement like the girls had taught him. 

“Go ahead,” he suggested. “I’ve disabled it, but you can try.”

“This isn’t a local grid,” Henderson clamored, sweat breaking on his brow as he smashed his finger into the button under his desk that would call security. “That should be setting off alarms everywhere -- why isn’t --”

Rhys' ECHOeye glinted, and the flash seemed to silence whatever babbling Henderson was determined to make. 

“I’m very good at what I do,” Rhys explained. “And now, I have the technology to do it better. Guess all I have left to learn is this _leadership_ thing. Any advice?”

Henderson, stupidly, merely put his hands up at shoulder level, as if the moment for surrender hadn’t already passed. “Rhys--”

“Oh, first names now?” Rhys laughed, but it was a little choked around the edges, a little wild. He was out of his own body, operating on an instinct he wasn’t sure he would have. “Didn’t know we’d gotten close. Let’s see, what could we learn from Gary Henderson about leadership, huh? Step one: Belittle your employees. Do you know how many HR complaints have been filed against you? You broke the record, boss. It’s inspiring.”

Henderson opened his mouth, likely to object, but Rhys tapped his free finger gently into the glass to regain Henderson’s focus. Henderson, of course, listened. The power struggle had already been lost.

“Moving on. What else have we learned?” Rhys asked, feigning thought. “Right: stealing credit for employee ideas, that’s my favorite. You don’t even know how this stuff _works,_ ” he chastised, gesturing to the tech that littered the office, “Yet you’re sure happy to pocket everyone’s bonuses, aren’t you? You’re _thrilled_ to get up on stage and talk about your new line of hospitality robotics, and how you’ve been _such_ a credit to your father’s name. And let’s not forget about the substandard working conditions, the outdated equipment, the quality of life… Buddy, look, if this is what you call leadership, I think I’ve already surpassed it.”

Rhys flipped the safety off on his pistol -- a standard issue Dahl that he’d ensured was untraceable -- and Henderson dissolved into a trembling bumble of words. 

“Rhys -- listen, I’ll fix the labs, okay? I’ll leave the girls alone, I swear it, I’ll--”

“Hold on, I wasn’t done,” Rhys interrupted, holding up his hand. He had to do this. He was too far in, now. “I have to talk about the most important lesson: making the hard decisions. We have to do things for the company we love, right? That’s a good lesson, Henderson.” His voice got quiet, caught up in the stillness that always proceeded something cataclysmic. “Best lesson I could get.”

“Rhys, wait -- ”

The barrel was silenced, of course. The sound still shocked him, and for a brief moment, he entertained the fact that his face must be identical to Henderson’s, who stood stone still as a dollop of blood started blooming across his baby blue dress shirt. Rhys fired twice more, determined to make the shots looks sporadic and juvenile to further avoid any incrimination. Most of Atlas knew he was good on the range, and that his shots always ended up center-mass. 

Henderson reached for him, some last, desperate wish to be close to another human being as his life started to lose its luminosity, but Rhys stepped back from the desk swiftly, the Dahl still held in his hands. He knew he had to make the final shot, but the bile was already rising in his throat, threatening to upend his determination. 

Still, he had to ensure Henderson’s death. It had to be final. 

The Eye helped the final bullet go straight through Henderson’s skull, despite Rhys' sweating fingers. It was a perfect precision shot, and the investigators would have a difficult time assigning blame when the other wounds were a miscalculated disaster. Murder was rare in the Edens, and their public police forces were nothing more than glorified security guards, untrained to take in the nuances of a crime scene. 

He shakily placed the Dahl on the table as Henderson crashed backwards into his chair, eyes rolling heavenwards as he finally fell still once hitting the plush, overpriced carpet. The room was silent and deafening, and Rhys was half convinced that the walls were going to start screaming his crime to anyone who would listen. 

He straightened his jacket, tried not to vomit, and exited quietly the way that he had came, shutting the door behind him to close in the acrid, copper stench of blood. The guard detail Henderson insisted upon were long gone, having been paid handsomely by a third-party to be conveniently responding to a fake emergency call three floors down. 

They had barely needed the money. Henderson wasn’t a popular employer for any department. 

The floors and lobby were quiet, but the blood was rushing through Rhys' ears, drowning out the silence. His footfalls made no noise on the tile, and his vision swayed alarmingly. Henderson’s death played like a silent film through his head, record scratching on all the right moments to ensure that Rhys would never forget the last, pleading look to cross a dying man’s face. He tried to calm himself, tried to remind his brain that everything was going smoothly, that there was no reason to second guess, that this had been _needed_ \-- until he ran full stop into Vivian from Marketing. 

She made a soft _oof_ sound as she was bumped backwards, and Rhys instinctively reached out to grab her elbows and prevent her from falling, but snapped his hands back instantly, delusionally convinced that they were covered in blood, and she would discover his crime. His heart was pounding violently. No one was supposed to be here after hours -- it had been essential in their plan. Henderson had made overtime a restricted policy so he wouldn’t have to shell out the extra money in paychecks, and Vivian’s unexpected presence was a glaring scuff in an otherwise pristine plan. 

“Director Northcutt!” She breathed excitedly, regaining her footing and trying to fix the hair that had fallen in front of her face. She was still dressed in the same outfit she had worn to work, and her face was drained with the exertion of a difficult day. “I’m so sorry -- I forgot my phone at my desk, and I’m supposed to be getting a… Are you alright, sir? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

She was staring at him in concern, her eyebrows knitted together, and Rhys mentally kicked himself. He needed to get it together. Being fully on his game was the only contingency plan he had now. 

“I’m fine, sorry,” he replied, ruffling his hair with a small smile. “My head’s in work -- you know how it is.” She gave him a commiserating look, as though she, too, always had her mind wrapped around the incricate plan he’d devised to murder the President of Atlas. The sight of her acceptance softened something in him, and words came a little easier. “Hey, you’re still on for that budget meeting tomorrow afternoon, right? I prefer when you’re there -- you’re level-headed, balance me out nicely. Plus you can translate Dr. Boron’s babble for me.”

She blushed minutely, her eyes casting downwards for a moment as she laughed lightly. “Of course, Director, I’ll be there. ...I’ll, see you tomorrow then?”

“Yup, sounds good,” Rhys said, giving her elbow a pat in solidarity before turning back towards the lobby doors. He heard her making her way towards the elevators and cursed quietly, realizing where she was headed. Rhys had cut the feed to the security cameras at both the entryway and along the path to Henderson’s office, but she would be clearly seen up in the Marketing offices. 

He couldn’t do anything about it now, but--

Jack’s vision swam until the Atlas building blazed in orange, the chrome entryway reflecting the yellowish haze of the budding morning sunrise. The memory resumed at a different point in time, and Jack could feel himself moving Rhys' body through the lobby, which was a bustle of confused employees whispering to one another behind their hands like they were caught in a middle school cafeteria. His phone had gone off so many times in the past three hours that he’d been forced to silence it as he made his way towards the roped off scene of Henderson’s office. 

A few employees greeted him as he passed, but everyone’s expressions were watery and distant. Rhys knew better than to imagine they grieved for their President’s death, but the very act of murder was likely to cause of ripple of disbelief throughout the city. Accidents happened frequently, but no one dared purposely end the life of another human being on their planet -- it was an act of brutality that no longer fit the times. 

Rhys felt his gut twist as the tear-stained face of Vivian greeted him from across the room. She was sitting in a plush armchair, holding a mug of something steamy as local law enforcement officer pulled out an ECHOpad. Rhys remained as distant as he could, pressing himself against the nearby wall and pulling out his phone in an effort to look distracted as employees milled about. He could just barely hear the conversation over their combined voices and his thumping pulse. 

“Ms...Higdon, was it?”

“Vivian,” came Vivian’s soft correction, her voice still wrecked with tears. 

“Vivian, of course. I’m terribly sorry that we have to do this, but as you’re the one who found the body--”

“I understand,” she interrupted, and Rhys felt a pang of guilt that it had to be _her_ who walked in on the scene. He never meant for this to personally affect anyone else. The officer cleared his throat and continued with as much grace as possible. “Could you walk me through what happened?”

“I…” Vivian hesitated, and rearranged her fingers on her mug, looking thoroughly uneasy. “I had a marketing agreement I needed to get to Mr. Henderson, so he could sign off on sending it to Legal. I was supposed to go meet with him in person this morning, but--”

She faltered here, and Rhys, unfortunately, knew why. Vivian had filed over twelve harassment reports on Henderson, all of which the man rebuffed until they were eventually drowned out by time. Rhys couldn’t blame her for being too apprehensive to go into his office for a one-on-one meeting. 

She recovered quickly. “We have… _had_ , a lot on the docket today, so I thought it would be kinder to have the packet waiting for him in the morning. I grabbed it from my office and went to his, and…”

“And why were you here so late, Vivian? No one works after hours at Atlas, unless my information is false.”

“No, no,” she admitted. “I forgot my phone. The damn thing. If I had just…”

Rhys glanced at her to watch her face screw up in another wail of tears, and the officer jolted in panic and tried to comfort her.  

“Hey no, it’s alright there. It’s fine. Just a few more questions, okay? That’s right. There we go. ...Now, did you see anyone else here after hours?”

Vivian looked up before Rhys could look away, as though she thought seeing someone’s face might jar a memory she didn’t know she had. As though magnetized, her gaze found his, and the moment they shared between themselves seemed to stretch the world around him, altering time to be something inescapable. If she accused him here, he might still be able to work his way out of it, but it would be difficult. And the rumors would follow him for decades, tarnishing his name. 

If she sold him out, it was all for nothing. It would be over. 

She blinked at him, her lips parting slightly as she realized what he’d done. Putting the puzzle together was easy when there were only two pieces, and she was only one move away from sending his whole takeover crashing down at his feet. 

She stared at him for so long even the officer tried to scan the gaggle of Atlas executives, looking for the source of her distraction. Rhys didn’t sway her. He wouldn’t beg, and he wouldn’t plead -- he’d let her make her own decisions, just as he’d always done, and simply prayed that the time he’d invested with her was enough to buy her loyalty. 

“No…” She answered finally, turning back to answer the officer with a renewed sense of purpose. “No, there was no one here that I saw.”

“Alright,” the officer agreed reluctantly, as though he didn’t quite believe her. “Now, I apologize, but I do have to ask… I’m hearing a lot of talk from this crowd about a Director Northcutt taking over. I know that name, seen him on the vids. Young kid, up and comer, real ambitious and all that… you know where he was last night?”

That didn’t take Rhys by surprise. He’d known well ahead of time that he’d be a primary suspect, and he had plans in place to combat all of that. But those plans depended upon his steadfast alibi, the surprise birthday party for Sasha he had purposefully bragged about to anyone who would listen. It depended on Vivian, and her loyalty to Atlas. Her loyalty to _Rhys._

She didn’t look back at him again. 

“I do, actually,” she confirmed. “Saw him leaving a bit early yesterday-- had that big party for his advisor last night, doing some last minute organizing and all. He actually sent me a photo of himself posing with the cake before I left work, would you like to see it?”

It was an outlandish lie. Rhys had never sent her such a picture, and the hope in his chest felt like a wild bird smacking against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to be free.

She made a show about fishing around for her phone, and the officer seemed to decide that her sudden distracted nature and trauma-filled morning was a sign that his questions had gone too far. 

“No, that’s okay Ms. Higdon. Vivian. You’ve clearly had quite a shock. No more questions this morning, alright? Let’s get you some more tea, maybe. Do you like the tea?”

The officer began to lead her away with a gentle hand across her back. She turned for just a moment, locked eyes with Rhys, and gave him a small nod. It was neither encouraging, nor appreciative, but it was _accepting,_ and that was enough for him. 

Jack was jerked back violently, the weight of his own hands a drastic difference from the lithe frame he had occupied only moments ago. He was seated back in his chair, the water splashing serenely in his fountain, and Rhys' fingerprints still smudging the desk in front of him. 

It was always jarring, returning to the present. It was becoming harder and harder to believe he was in the correct reality, especially when Rhys Northcutt, vicious little COO of the Atlas Corporation and undeniable murderer, stepped out of the bathroom, tucking his shirt back into his pants after being freshly banged out over Jack’s desk. 

“You good?” Rhys asked, staring at Jack with a strange mixture of apprehension and concern. Like he wasn’t sure Jack could be trusted with any emotion other than savage dismissal. 

“That was the first man you killed,” Jack answered him blankly, his mind still sweeping over the memories of Rhys' adrenaline, the sick, shaky feeling that came after he watched Henderson take his last breaths. 

Rhys' eyes flicked over to where Vasquez’s body was still sprawled across the floor. “Who, Wallethead? You know it’s not.”

“No, not -- _Henderson,_ I mean. That asshole that used to run Atlas.”

“Oh.” Rhys expression sobered. “Did you see…?”

“Yeah,” Jack answered, and hated how breathless he sounded. “And that woman, she didn’t even sell you out.”

“Vivian, right,” Rhys sighed, passing by Jack to toss his tailored jacket across his chair. “Everything went smoothly because of her. I have… extremely loyal employees.” He sounded mildly humbled, and for some reason it enraged Jack. It poked at his insecurities, and that was something he wasn’t ready to evaluate. 

“Hyperion employees are loyal,” he argued immediately, triggered to respond. “They throw themselves in front of me to be bullet sponges. They’d lick my boots if I asked. That’s way more dedication then not being a narc, pumpkin.”

Rhys smiled as he sat down, but he wouldn’t look at Jack as he answered, “They’re loyal to Handsome Jack, sure. But how do they feel about Jack, the father? Or Jack, the engineer? Are you a person to them, or a personification of power that they all want a piece of?” Rhys pulled his chair closer to his workstation, still avoiding Jack’s gaze. “There’s all different kinds of loyalty. But how many of them are Nisha, and how many of them are Angel?” 

Jack could feel the bubbling disgust in his veins, and for a moment, he _hated_ being so close to Rhys and his bullet-mongering words. As though they were suddenly close enough that Rhys was allowed to evaluate the relationships of the people he loved, to treat them as nothing more than varying examples of fluctuating devotion. He opened his mouth to tell Rhys to get the fuck out of his office, workload be damned, but Rhys cut him off before the words could escape him. 

“Still, I can’t say I’m not impressed,” he admitted softly, as though he knew he needed to temper the room back down. “Hyperion employees can leave, but they just… don’t. And you’re right. Asking people to die for you is leagues above asking someone to stay a few hours later to run schematics.” Rhys paused, thoughtful, before scoffing away the mild smile that twitched its way across his face. “I mean, you run a company, and a literal goddamn army; I don’t think I could ever inspire people the way you do. ...Hell, you inspired _me_ when I started at Atlas.”

The rising anger in Jack’s veins quieted, replaced with a strange sort of reverence that seemed to pulse out from Rhys like a blip on a radar. He stared at the man beside him, who was only feet away in measurable distance, but closer in vulnerability than Jack had ever thought he’d see. It was a raw admittance, and he was very nearly touched. 

But he couldn’t let Rhys know that. He’d already projected too much during their entanglement with the way he’d held Rhys too close, and he wasn’t about to offer up anymore of his feelings to a man he _swore_ he was ready to kill. 

“Oh, I know,” he began, digging within himself to find that egotistical flair that had always been so readily available. “I saw those posters you had above your desk at your penthouse, Rhysie. I got a nice little memory of you thinking some impure thoughts about me during a lonely night...Scandalous, really.” 

Jack had only been teasing about those glimpses of posters he’d stumbled across, utilizing a fallback method to avoid the conversations he wasn’t ready to have. But the moment the words were out, Rhys bent over his desk a little more fully and turned his face away. 

Jack grinned, delight barreling through him to replace the sensitive emotions he was trying to smother. He could see the slight tinge of red on the back of Rhys' neck, which only served to dump fuel across the blazing fire of his indulgence. . 

“No _way._ You totally did! I must be like, a _legend_ over in the Eden’s, huh? So what got your panties wet, babe, the stories, or the pictures?”

“ _Clearly,_ you already know,” Rhys snapped, all pristine professionalism gone in lieu of his embarrassment.

“Nah,” Jack laughed. “Totally made that up. What a frickin’ guess though, right? You throw me curve balls all day long, Atlas, but you’re still _so_ predictable.”

Rhys turned, his eyes wide with mortification once he realized what he’d given away. “You seriously didn’t --”

But their conversation was interrupted as Jack’s intercom beeped, informing them of the hazmat crew’s arrival. Jack authorized their entry, and watched with a bemused demeanor as Rhys tried to wipe the humiliation from his face and resume his steadfast work in the presence of Hyperion personnel. 

Jack could still see the telltale signs of their impromptu coupling, tearing apart Rhys' cover like a breadcrumb trail for anyone who bothered to look: red marks littered his throat, courtesy of Jack’s lips and hands, and the collar of his shirt was wrinkled and twisted. His hair was back to something resembling professional, but Jack could still see the unsculpted indentions from where he had curled his fingers through the locks. 

The more he looked, the more he wanted. His hands itched to take Rhys apart again, his previous irritation all but forgotten as he stared at the trophy he had just so recently claimed. Very rarely did a conquest entice him for another round, but there was something about Rhys he couldn’t shake; something cataclysmic, something that promised neither a brief release, nor an easy escape. 

The thought frightened him, but he found himself more drawn to the idea because of it. Rhys was just another thing to overcome, and Jack was certain that he could fuck the relentless need away until it faded and submitted to him, as all things were destined to do.  

But with present company still mulling over how best to remove the body from the office, Jack couldn’t make any physical movements on Rhys. So, he chose his next best option for releasing the coil of _want_ inside of him, and began picking at open scab that Rhys was leaving painfully uncovered. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said lowly, just loud enough for Rhys to hear over the sound of Vasquez’s boots being drug across the tile. “Your secret is safe with me. No one needs to know how pretty you look bent over my desk.”

Rhys flushed again, but having Jack’s employees so close seemed to drum up some kind of cockiness, a desire to raise his own podium to an equal level. A facade to match Jack’s, and just as well-worn. 

“Maybe I’ll tell them myself,” Rhys suggested quietly, flicking a patch of code aside with his cybernetics. “Seems a shame that such a ‘pretty’ sight should go unseen.”

Jack knew he was being baited, but he couldn’t deny the sudden fog of jealousy that drowned out his higher functions. Atlas was a prize, and despite all of Jack’s dismissiveness, it could never prevent Rhys from knowing his own allure. The thought of someone else seeing Rhys so submissive and feisty beneath them flared an unwelcome sense of despair, as though he’d adopted an animal from the streets that fought him tooth and nail, but one that he desperately missed once the owners claimed him.

“Hyperion employees know better than to fraternize with the enemy,” Jack grumbled, but Rhys only smiled and continued working.

Conversation quieted after that, with Rhys digging into more code and Jack barking orders at the cleanup crew, threatening to dock the entire department’s budget if he found a single speck of blood in his office. They were done within twenty minutes, leaving nothing of Vasquez’s presence other then the guilty satisfaction flowing through Rhys' veins. Jack could feel it in their shared space, and secretly fed upon it like a starving, greedy man. 

They continued to work in tandem, correcting and modifying where appropriate, falling back into the rhythm they unknowingly supplied for one another, until there was a soft knock against the door. 

“Come in,” Jack said instantly, not bothering to look up from his monitors. 

Angel entered gracefully, carrying a large brown paper bag with the stamp of one of the bistos they’d been frequenting together. It crinkled brightly as Angel shut the door behind her, and she took a moment to re-smooth her fitted dress with her free hand before approaching them. 

“Hello Dr. Northcutt!” She said cheerfully, as though she had to balance out the various atrocities that had tainted the office that morning. She placed the bag on Jack’s desk and immediately began fishing around in it as Rhys smiled up at her. 

“Hi Angel,” he replied warmly from Jack’s side, and Jack tried not to focus on how sincere it sounded. No one had gotten to know Angel well enough to develop a personal opinion about her, and knowing that it was ambiguous _Rhys,_ of all people, was doing nothing for Jack’s nerves. “Easy day for you so far?”

“Mhm,” she nodded, pulling out their orders. “Only one body so far this week -- Handsome Jack’s practically turned saintly.”

“Hey, I didn’t kill a single soul today,” Jack corrected, resolutely ignoring the food Angel placed on his desk in favor of looking invested in his work. He wanted this conversation over quickly to avoid any more unintentional bonding. “You’ve got Rhys here to thank for Vasquez’s DNA splattering the place.”

“Oh,” Angel replied, only hesitating slightly as she passed Rhys his box. “I didn’t realize Atlas executives were prone to violence.”

“Well, that particular guy was a dick,” Rhys offered, “And I made an exception. You’re welcome.” 

Jack snorted, despite himself. 

“And that’s all I need to know,” Angel interrupted, effectively thwarting the topic. She tended to turn a blind eye to some of the things that happened in Jack’s office, but the discomfort still hung heavy in her expression. She’d always been on the squeamish side. “Can I provide you with anything else, Handsome Jack?”

“That’s all, pumpkin,” Jack muttered, tapping a semicolon into existence on his screen. “And you might as well drop the titles. No point to them now.”

“...Right,” she answered softly, as though surprised. “I’ll be just outside if you need me, Dad.”

“Oh, Angel,” Rhys spoke up as she turned, commanding her attention. He wasn’t looking at her directly, but there was a cheeky smile on his face regardless. “Gaige’s favorite color is orange. Just in case you needed to know.”

Angel’s eyes darted to Jack’s fearfully, as though caught in something scandalous, but Jack resolutely ignored the bid for acknowledgement. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled. “I’ll just… Enjoy your lunch.”

Rhys snorted in amusement as she shut the door behind her, and Jack glared at him. 

“You want to tell me why that’s so frickin’ funny, Rhysie?”

Rhys shrugged, opening his container and spearing pasta onto his fork. “Nothing. It’s just cute. Gaige won’t shut up about her. Though, she never shuts up at all, so maybe I’m reading too much into it.” He stopped long enough to pop the food into his mouth, and Jack watched with morbid fascination as Rhys' expression went from amusement, to curiosity, to surprise, and finally distrust. “Did _you_ order this?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s good,” Rhys explained, as though the revelation alarmed him. “...Did you…” He paused, and began examining the rest of his lunch, including the tailored drinks. “Did this intimate knowledge of my preferences come from some kind of super creepy reconnaissance, or is it the brain thing?”

“Guess,” Jack supplied bitterly. 

“No shit,” Rhys grinned, his eyes doing that glassy thing that happened to most of Jack’s more committed scientists once they powered through a hurdle. “This is amazing! Maybe the initial influx of memories was just the first phase of some kind of melding, paving the way for more intricacies. At some point we may even be able to predict one another’s thoughts, or actions. The desire for physical proximity has already manifested, obviously--”

Jack panicked. He didn't want to talk about it. He didn’t want to _evaluate_ it. And he certainly didn’t want Rhys blabbering about it like it was anything other than… Than what?

“--The fucking, you mean? Cause that’s all that was. You know that.” 

Rhys faltered, as though his train had jumped the tracks, still trying to get to its destination, but no longer controlled. “The...right. Of course. The connection would probably be making up for the absence of pack mentality by exhibiting certain… yeah.”

“Don’t forget why we’re here. If it weren’t for that Vault, you’d be dead right now, Atlas,” Jack reminded him. “And if we’re gonna be forced to interact, I might as well take whatever I can get from you.” 

It felt wrong to see Rhys' face collapse like it did, but Jack was a man of particular ethics, and letting Rhys _or_ himself believe that sex was anything more than an act of shared frustration would be going against the protective barrier he had built for himself. 

It would be something that Jack couldn’t control, and he needed to stamp out the idea before it gained traction. 

“I haven’t forgotten,” Rhys replied back icily, and for a moment, Jack hated that the wonder had been sapped from Rhys' expression -- just another innocent facet of a human being that Jack had managed to rip apart. “Let’s keep working, then, and avoid any more of this ‘forced interaction’.”

Jack tried not to let those words hurt him as the silence of their workload encased them. Rhys, so close only minutes ago, was worlds away from him now, and Jack had to focus hard to convince himself that he didn’t want him back.

 

///

 

Fiona took a long shower once Rhys left that morning, intending to let warm water pound away at the stiffness in her shoulders and the stress in her back. Instead, she found herself staring vacantly into the grout between the tiles, forever doomed to look at the crack in the making of everything, and gave relaxation up as a lost cause. 

She wore Atlas colors and an Atlas facade, because she’d always been good at playing a role, and answered a few of the more important messages from the people she’d left behind on Eden-5. The man who ran the range wanted to know if she’d be interested in teaching a few classes on self defense (she wasn’t), and the Botany professor from the University was curious if she’d like to join him for lunch (she didn’t). 

She had a few messages that had been forwarded to her, featuring hand-written letters from a fourth grade class that had taken a field trip to Atlas Headquarters recently. She’d seen them only briefly, when Rhys stopped by to hand out beginner coding sets to wide-eyed children and a fawning teacher. 

He’d introduced her as “My advisor, Ms. Erins. I wouldn’t be who I am today without her guidance,” and though Fiona had lectured him later on giving her a spotlight, she never corrected him. Not that day, nor the time after that, nor any of the ones that followed. And when the thank you letters from the children came, saying they would grow up to be just like Dr. Northcutt, a few of them even mentioned her. A few of the smarter ones even wanted to _be_ her, knowing that the person who advised the commander was truly in the position of power. 

Most of them just liked the robots, but Fiona saved all the emails regardless. 

Sasha and Axton were still asleep in their shared room ( _gross,_ she thought involuntarily), and Vaughn was sprawled across the sofa dangerously, his mouth open as he snored lightly. He’d been up late, dealing with the parts of Atlas Rhys needed to delegate, which was everything that didn’t involve talking to people or soldering something. But Vaughn was always more than happy to generalize reports, adjust budgeting, and implement the changes Rhys devised. If Atlas were a machine, Vaughn was the oil, and nothing gave him greater joy then making sure she ran smoothly. 

Gaige, of course, was already up. Fiona had a sneaky suspicion the girl consumed at _least_ three energy drinks a day, but could never confirm it. 

“Morning, Fi,” Gaige greeted, fiddling with the touchscreen on her ECHO. “Rhys already gone?”

“Yeah,” Fiona answered blearily, opening up the fridge to scavenge for juice of some kind. “Supposed to be working with Jack to figure out how to unstick their brains. If they don’t kill each other first.”

“He’s really swallowed that whole ‘hive-mind’ thing easily, didn’t he?” Gaige observed, “I’d be _freaking out_ right now if someone else could just, like, swim around in my memories and feelings and gunk.”

“Yeah, well, you know Rhys,” she sighed, “Everything is just something to _fix,_ isn’t it? I’m not sure that boy has ever had an ounce of self-awareness.” She shut the bare-boned fridge with a disgruntled scoff. “ I’m hungry. You want something from that room service bot?”

“Already ordered,” Gaige said, pointing towards the table where a large plate of doughnuts sat. At least three of them were already gone. Fiona shrugged and picked up the _least_ sugar-encrusted one, wondering if her stomach would be able to handle the drastic change in diet that Gaige was tempting her with. 

“What are you doing?” She asked, motioning towards Gaige’s screen. “More chats with Angel?”

“Yup,” Gaige answered, not a trace of shame in her voice. “She gets up early too, has to do her whole PA thing, y’know. She says Jack hasn’t left his office, and there haven’t been gunshots yet, so that’s good, right?”

“Mmhm. Let’s just pray Rhys watches his mouth,” Fiona sighed, biting into her pathetic breakfast. 

“Jack won’t kill him,” Gaige reassured her, filled with a strange confidence. “Even if they weren’t doing that weird Eridium-brain thing, Jack isn’t going to kill someone he wants to bang.” 00

Fiona snorted in alarm and began coughing wildly around the piece of half-chewed pastry in her mouth. Eyes watering, she stared Gaige down. “He wants to _what ?”_

“Bang?” Gaige asked, raising an eyebrow as though speaking to a particularly dim-witted companion. “Bone? Horizontal tango? Putting someone’s insides through a blender? The pants-off dance-off? Jack sticking his--”

“Alright! Okay!” Fiona panicked, holding up her doughnut-free hand in an attempt to get Gaige to stop. “Please, no more. You’re too young to talk like that, and I think I might be too old,” she groused, pulling a face. “And honestly, the whole boning thing? Don’t put that evil on us. Rhys wouldn’t dare.” She paused. “I mean, he can be kind of impulsive, sure, but...”

Gaige just stared pointedly at her, and Fiona glared back. 

“It’s super gross,” she declared, always at the height of maturity. “I might ground you for saying it. Full disclosure.”

Gaige snorted. “I’m already grounded, remember? We all are. At least Rhys is having a bit of fun before we’re all executed--”

“Alright, I’m out,” Fiona announced, tossing the what remained of the doughnut in the trash as she stood. “I’m leaving you alone with your sins. Tell Sasha I’ll be back in a bit.”

Gaige mumbled something as she left, but Fiona was intentionally ignoring her. The girl was a vicious rumor-monger, but her facts tended to be hit-or-miss. Plus, she’d been cooped up for too long on Helios and it was starting to wear at her patience, like a druggie that had been forced into rehab, snapping at the people closest to her. 

Outside the door, she paused, and tried not to feel the expectant eyes of the escorts upon her. She had no desire to mingle with the Hyperion employees, but the thought of staring at the walls of her suite had her stomach churning in protest. It was really out of sheer desperation that she finally mumbled her destination and began the long, closely monitored elevator ride down towards the thirty-first level. 

Tim wasn’t there this time. Only the windows remained, somehow smaller in the absence of his silhouette, as though the vastness of space was indigestible unless compared against their insignificant forms. Relief flooded through her at the notion of true solitude, but there was a stark contrast between peace and isolation, and only one offered her any satisfaction. 

She gave a disgruntled nod to her escort, who retreated back through the doorway to stand watch in the hall. She sat in the vacated chair, put her feet up on the desk, and watched as the world quite literally passed her by. She thought about Sasha and Axton, who would be rousing from slumber and polishing off the remainder of the doughnuts. She thought of her sister’s happiness, and how it was slowly drifting away from her own, forging its own path that was neither beside hers, nor veering abruptly away. It was a smooth stretch, growing distant in mere inches, but unavoidable in its direction. 

Who was she, if not Sasha’s caretaker? Rhys' advisor? Vaughn’s confidant? Gaige’s mentor? These were all titles she claimed, but their purpose was unclear. Her _future_ was unclear. 

Slowly, she began to doze in the hazy beauty that space begot. Hours passed as Pandora floated sublimely in the distance, calling out for adventurers like a siren’s lamentation to replace those who had died in their quest for glory. She let herself drift under the chill of space until a distance voice in the hallway disturbed her solitude. 

“I’ve got it from here. Take a break, kid.”

Footsteps echoed as they approached her, but there was no urgency behind them. It was the pace of a well-travelled routine, confident and secure in a way only repetition could perfect. She knew it was him before he came to stand beside her, and she didn’t even bother to tear her gaze away from the sprawling view of infinity. 

She could smell Pandora on him. The metallic scent of oxidized iron in the red rocks of the canyons, the wind and atmosphere that the manufactured air on Helios could never hope to recreate. She could even hear the rustling of his clothes as he moved, dislodging several small mounds of dirt that had encrusted against his clothes. 

“You’re in my spot,” he said finally, and to her annoyance, he sounded amused. 

“I was here first.”

A pause. Neither inviting, nor distasteful.

“There are other chairs, you know,” he offered finally. 

“Then feel free to take one,” she replied, and while he didn’t respond, she could sense his desire to prolong the curated argument. But whatever dealings he’d had previously with Pandoran locals seemed to have given him the good sense to know when to stop. Or maybe that gift came naturally. Either way, Fiona wished it were more common, because if it could make a _Hyperion_ employee easy to deal with, there could be hope for the rest of the galaxy.  

Finally, Tim moved away, grabbing another discarded chair and hefting it over to the opposite end of the table. He mirrored his pose from the previous day, settling in and placing his hands demurely in his lap as he propped his boots across the table. He didn’t speak, content to allow Fiona to share his private space with no upfront explanation. Time passed between them as they took from the world the composure it would never willingly let them have. 

Eventually, she glanced over at him, taking in the mud-caked boots, the sun-bleached denim, the fraying shirt-tails that remained perpetually untucked. Tim looked like he’d been ripped from Sunday yard work to enjoy a glass of tea on the hand-built porch. He looked as out of place as she felt. She didn’t understand how anyone could confuse this man for Jack.

Not like this, anyway.

“What have you been into?” She asked into the silence, because talking, _somehow,_ felt as serene as the quiet did. 

“Some light recon,” he answered, and though it was laced with sarcasm, she couldn’t detect any trace of a lie. She figured that was all he intended on saying, but before a beat had passed, he returned the hesitant invitation of conversation. “Ever been to that canyon down in the Rust Commons?”

“No,” Fiona admitted. “Last time I was in that area, it was run by a dude named Krom. Taking on a bandit lord isn’t really my area.”

“Of course,” Tim replied, his cheek twitching as he withheld a smile. “Trying to outsmart the CEO of Hyperion is more in line with your expertise.”

Fiona shrugged. “I’ve got the COO of Atlas at my beck and call. I wouldn’t call myself a professional, but I certainly have talent.”

A half-truth, like most of her truths. But Tim didn’t need to know the details. He smiled and tipped his head back, as if to enjoy some of the potential sunshine that might bounce back from Pandora’s surface. 

“Krom’s been dead for ages,” he continued, as though the teasing hadn’t took place. “There’s just a few stragglers now. The water’s starting to rise, though -- bit of a pain to get through.”

“Seems like a great spot to get information,” Fiona snorted. “A washed up canyon with half-baked psychos that would sooner _eat_ intel then utilize it. Your talents are being wasted, Timothy Lawrence.”

She turned in time to see him grin, eyes closed and head back like he was finally _resting,_ and she looked away quickly before the sight could move something within her. 

“I’m looking for a woman named Cater,” Tim explained, unperturbed by Fiona’s comment. “She’s been placed up pretty high on Hyperion’s Most Wanted list, and I’m trying to figure out where she rests her head, and what her game plan might be.”

“Is this the kind of mediocre thing Jack uses his billion dollar body double for?” 

Tim hummed in amusement. “Between you and me, Hyperion soldiers are mostly idiots, and the assassins are difficult to predict -- plus, Moxxi has been buying some of them out and offering, um... _appreciation_ to most of the contractors we hire. It’s hard to find a solid mixture of loyalty _and_ efficiency.”

“So you’re the golden boy,” Fiona deduced, and she found herself unwilling to keep the scorn from her voice. “Jack’s most reliable. What about that robotic freak, Wilhelm?”

Tim scoffed. “Please. Could you imagine Wil trying to get anything covertly? Half the planet would know what Hyperion’s after by the end of the day.”

He raised his arms to put them behind his head, and Fiona caught another whiff of dirt and gunmetal. Of _freedom_. It was enough to make her heart seize. 

“I miss the ground,” she admitted. “I don’t like space much.”

The long-conditioned part of her brain that ensured her survival was screaming at her for the blunt honesty. But Tim reminded her of the parts of Pandora she didn’t hate: the arid sky, so different then Eden’s humid clouds; the thrill of the unknown, a thing she had long ago traded for Atlas security. He reminded her of chasing dreams.

She knew she was a fool to miss it. But she’d spent a lifetime making smarter choices to ensure Sasha’s survival, and Pandora was a beacon for the selfish desires she’d never let herself have. 

“I’ve read about you,” Tim replied finally, once the words had long left Fiona’s mouth to hover between them like some misguided catalyst. “You did well on Pandora, all things considered--”

“It was hell down there,” she interrupted, because it _was._ Whatever itch she was feeling, it had to be known that she wasn’t crazy. She recognized that lawless planet for what it was, and she recognized her own inanity for missing it. 

“It is,” Tim agreed, and his voice was soft, but steady. Like he was talking down a wild thing, placating it to prepare it for something new. “All I meant was, you held your own. You’re the one that trained Northcutt, right?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

She was snapping at him, but he only smiled. It looked nothing like Jack’s devious expressions. Nothing like the cocky, manic grins of a man who had his aspirations on speed-dial and chaos penned in on his daily schedule. No, Tim’s smiles were honest. She wasn’t sure what to do with that. 

“You’d make a good partner down there, is all I’m saying. If you’re interested.”

Fiona froze. “What?”

Tim shrugged, as though nothing was particularly strange about the suggestion. “I need someone down there to watch my back. There’s only a select few who know I’m not Jack, which leaves the docket for potentials pretty low. And to be frank, I’m not very compatible with most of Hyperion personnel.”

“Okay, and? You want to tell me why in that hell I _would?”_ Fiona hissed, taking her feet off of the table to sit up straighter. “Did you forget that you had a gun pointed at me three days ago? And what, you just expect me to tromp around Pandora with you? I can’t even leave the penthouse without an _escort._ ”

Tim adjusted himself to slouch further down into the chair, smiling slightly at Fiona’s alarm. 

“I can get you clearance, and besides -- you look bored,” he reasoned. “So I’ll ask you again, Ms. Fiona Erins, advisor to Atlas's COO, and Pandoran veteran: You interested in showing me up, planetside?”   



	11. walk in circles, talk in circles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you <3

 

_///_

_Accomplishments are just excuses to talk and spit_   
_When you music stops, who will have a spot to sit?_   
_Bring me the head of whoever said "play fair"_   
_I want to sit in my chair and wear a blank stare_

_///_

 

 

The artificial lighting was low by the time Rhys began the miserable trek back towards the suite. Jack hadn’t supplied him any guard detail, which was both a blessing and a curse. A lack of escorts insinuated that Jack had  _ some  _ sort of trust in him still -- but the lack of protection left Rhys open for a vindictive knife through his ribs, courtesy of some overhyped Hyperion middle-manager that only knew half the story. 

The work with Jack had been tedious, and his Eye was pulsing an annoyed throb of hurt across his temples, as though scolding him for overworking it. The mood in the room had plummeted after Jack’s cruel reminder of Rhys's importance, and they’d become disjointed in the hours afterwards, two melodies that refused to create the symphony that had been so easily orchestrated that morning.  

His muscles ached from Jack’s rough treatment, and it only added salt to the already worsening wound of Rhys's pride. He’d let himself get too caught up in their teetering affinity, the allure of their contrasts. Part of him knew that Jack was right -- that Rhys would very likely be dead if the newly implanted Eridian tech hadn’t kept Jack’s trigger finger at bay -- but his own morality at the hands of luck was a difficult thing to come to terms with. 

As he delved too deep into the emotional baggage, an unsettling and sudden wave of nausea broke over him, and his eyesight blackened and sparked like he’d been hit by lightning. He stumbled, smacking his shoulder hard into the wall as his vision filtered in and out, flashing between the Hyperion halls that surrounded him, and the office he’d so recently left. He could see Jack’s hands in front of him, attached to his own body; he felt them move to sweep a keyboard violently off the desk to smash across the floor. The keys popped off, spring-loaded to react to Jack’s rage, and Rhys could feel the rising anger in his gut like the swelling of a tide. A heavy growl of frustration, hands in his hair--

But the moment was gone. He was Rhys again, his own fingers shaking as he held them up, petrified of whose hands he’d find. That was no memory -- he knew that fact more clearly than any other -- and the cold press of fear trickled down his spine as he realized their connection was evolving to include real-time emotions; he was cognizant of Jack’s current whereabouts, the frustration that threatened to upend Jack’s carefully constructed peace. He was able to  _ see  _ Jack during a moment of separation, with no ability to control it and no way to predict what else that connection could entail. 

His stomach churned, sour and heavy at the back of his throat. He placed his quivering forearms against the cold chrome of the hallway and vomited up his lunch until his insides clenched in protest and he gagged on acid. 

This was out of his control. 

His vision was still swimming sickeningly, but it focused long enough to see the the backlit poster that hovered against the wall next to him. It was a background of deep blue that matched Rhys' company colors, with a gorgeous silver border that sparkled with allure. The fiery orange text was unmistakable in its insinuation. 

 

**ALL WARFARE IS BASED ON DECEPTION**

 

He thought of Jack’s words, his clear-cut dismissal, and felt his empty stomach twist in upset and disgust at the multiple meanings he was able to devise from the cruel, transparent words. This was what he deserved. He came here to Helios, he’d  _ lied,  _ and that Jack should be repaying the favor was only par for the course. Rhys wasn’t ready to let it hurt, and turned away from the newest Securities Propaganda piece before it could drum up any more unwanted emotions. 

He needed help.

Ten minutes later he stumbled into the suite, looking helplessly for Vaughn. Vaughn made things okay. He had an incredible talent for  _ making  _ things work, for  _ willing  _ an answer into existence, and Rhys didn’t know where else to turn. Fiona would revolt at the frank discussion. Sasha would be furious with recent his decisions. But Vaughn -- Vaughn would recognize what Rhys needed. He always had. 

He was in one of the bedrooms, cozied up on a bed with three ECHOpads spread out before him like tiny pikemen, defending him from anything in the world that he couldn’t micromanage. 

“Rhys!” he said happily as Rhys shut the door behind himself. Then, once seeing the look on Rhys face, balked at his own excitement and repeated Rhys's name in frantic concern. “What happened?”

“I need help, Vaughn,” Rhys admitted. “I’m in over my head. Or… I’m too into my own head. Someone else’s head. I don’t know.”

“Oh my god,” Vaughn said, scooping up his ECHOs to make room. “Alright. So, it’s happening then?”

“What?”

“Your breakdown!” Vaughn supplied, gesturing towards Rhys head in a vague, insulting fashion. He got up to steer Rhys down on top of the thousand dollar comforter. “You know, the thing you’ve been avoiding since you had Eridian technology literally beamed into your brain?”

“I…” Rhys paused, allowing Vaughn to shove a half-empty water bottle into his hands. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought I might learn something.”

“Rhys, seriously? You thought having someone else inside your head would be a  _ learning  _ experience? That’s nuts, man. Having a cool Eye is one thing, but sharing your  _ brain?   _ Your memories? I don’t know why you weren’t freaking out about this from the beginning.”

Rhys swallowed a swig of water, and felt it burn his torn up throat the whole way down. “It was okay at first,” he reasoned. “Just memories. I didn’t like them, but they were just kind of like really, really immersive dreams. I was more focused on keeping us alive. I thought… maybe I could utilize it, somehow. ...But it changed.”

Vaughn’s hand squeezed Rhys's shoulder, then fell away. His eyes grew wide in concern behind his glasses, and Rhys cherished the one last moment he had before it would be necessary to open up completely.  

“What changed? Did Jack hurt you again? You’re all...sweaty and pale and gross.”

“No,” Rhys shook his head. His migraine was in full affect, and the water wasn’t helping. He wanted to sleep. He just wanted the day to be  _ done  _ with, and hope that tomorrow, things would go back to before he understood the severity of what was happening to him. “I threw up, sorry. I'm just… look, remember when I told you I had to heal Jack, planetside? When I figured out the transfusion thing worked through the connection?”

Vaughn nodded. “Yeah, sure. Shame the jerk couldn’t just die without dragging you down with him.”

Rhys winced. This was going to be so much harder to admit now. Damn it, Vaughn. “Right. Well, adrenaline was going, and all of that, you know. And we kind of had a… moment.”

“A moment,” Vaughn parroted, utterly clueless. 

“A  _ moment, _ ” Rhys repeated, as though saying it slower would nudge the  _ Jack is the enemy _ banner from across Vaughn’s eyes long enough for him to deduce what Rhys was saying. “And then, today, there was a bigger… moment.”

“Moment.”

“Yes, a moment. An...inappropriate moment.”

A pause, and the light in Vaughn’s head finally clicked on. His eyes grew wide in alarm, and he brought his hands up to cover his face in a very real and honest reaction to shock. “A  _ moment!   _ Rhys, what the _fuck_ \--”

“No, no, listen,” Rhys interrupted hastily, determined to initiate damage control. “Yesterday, look, that was all on me. I take full responsibility for that. But today, it was like… it felt fully out of my control. Like, it  _ had  _ to happen, it just needed the push. I don’t know how much of it is the freaky-ass brain wave, but--”

“Oh my god,” Vaughn repeated, completely ignoring Rhys's words and focusing on the red marks that littered his throat. “Oh my  _ god,  _ you went all the way, didn’t you?” 

“Vaughn, what is this, high school?” Rhys asked incredulously, and a slip of chaotic laughter bubbled out of him. He couldn’t help it. The expression on Vaughn’s face, coupled with the lunacy of the situation, made that whispered question too ridiculous to handle. 

Vaughn glared at him. “This isn’t funny! You  _ slept   _ with the CEO of Hyperion? You know he’s ready to kill any of us at any given moment, right?! I thought he  _ hated  _ you?!  What the hell are you even  _ doing--” _

“I don’t know!” Rhys hissed out, still swallowing the absurd little giggles that were spurting from him like a leaky faucet. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you -- I don’t know if I’m being guided, if  _ I’m  _ the one doing this --”

“Oh, you’re  _ definitely  _ the one doing this,” Vaughn interrupted with a snort. “You’ve had the hots for that guy since you were like, twenty--” 

“No -- Vaughn, you idiot -- the  _ tech.  _ I can’t distinguish between my wants from what I’m being compelled to do, you get it? It’s like… I  _ want  _ to be close to him. No, don’t give me that face, just listen. We’re syncing up, and it’s freaking me out. When we worked together today? It was perfect. Harmony. Like I’d known him all my life, and I knew I was safe. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.” 

Vaughn’s hands fell from his mouth slowly, like he was afraid that quick movements would shatter the severity of the conversation. “So that’s when you guys…”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Stop focusing on the sex for like, half a second. ...But yes.”

“ _ Gross, _ ” Vaughn lamented childishly, and Rhys wondered if he should have told Sasha instead. The disgust would still be there, but the taboo nature of it wouldn’t, and Rhys would be free from Vaughn’s judgemental reactions. 

“Stop, just listen. After that… something changed. Jack ordered me lunch, and he knew all of my preferences. None of that was knowledge could have been triggered from a memory. That’s something deeper.”

Vaughn’s face turned serious, for which Rhys was grateful. 

“You’re saying that this… connection thing. It isn’t limited to past experiences?”

“No,” Rhys shook his head in agreement. “It was involuntary, too. He ordered it without thinking, without even considering what it meant until after it happened. It’s operating subconsciously.” Rhys licked his lips, trying to piece together his disjointed thoughts through the cloud of meaningless fluff that currently filled his overworked mind. “And afterwards, we argued. It fell apart. Like the worst comedown you could imagine, but it affected everything. My demeanor, my ability to process information, my ability to function. I couldn’t focus, and neither could he.”

“It’s symbiotic,” Vaughn mumbled in wonder, pushing his glasses further up his face. “Or at the very least, linked on a level we didn’t think to study. You’re not just sharing information anymore, you’re sharing the very essence of your existence. Your moods, the condition of your health, your needs -- all of it is being relayed and reacted upon like a colony would operate… only it’s --”

“Only it’s just the two of us, yeah,” Rhys finished, relieved that Vaughn had finally gotten there. “And just now, on the walk back here, I saw him. I saw Jack, exactly where I’d left him, having a pissy breakdown of some kind in his office. Real-time.”

“Shit,” Vaughn said, eyes wide. “Rhys, this is…”

“It’s terrifying, I know.”

“No,” Vaughn correctly sternly. “It was terrifying  _ before.  _ Now it’s like… some kind of nightmare, man, I don’t even know. When does it stop?” 

Rhys looked at him helplessly, knowing that he had been avoiding asking himself that very question. For the first time in his life, he didn’t strive for an answer. He didn’t want to look beyond the door of his understanding. He’d never been  _ afraid  _ of knowledge before, but here he was, huddled across his best friend’s bed, trying desperately to block out the single most advanced piece of technology the galaxy had ever seen. 

The look of Rhys' defeat must have been too alarming for Vaughn, because he sat down next to Rhys and exhaled heavily.

“It’s alright. Look, we can fix this. Let’s just break down the problem.”

Rhys relaxed minutely, more than ready to hand the reins of his bad decisions onto anyone else. 

“You need to build that program to analyze the tech. Once that’s ready, we can move on to tampering down the connection.”

Rhys nodded along. This wasn’t the first time Vaughan had to reduce things to manageable levels once Rhys got in over his head, and the familiar territory was a beacon of comfort. 

“But you and Jack need to cooperate if you want to get it done on any kind of reasonable timeline. Arguing led to dissonance. What was the fight about?”

Rhys swallowed thickly. “I frightened him, I think. I started talking about the sex too casually. I implied an... emotional aspect.” 

Silence hung heavy after the admittance, and Rhys could almost feel the pathetic sympathy in the air. He didn’t want to speak about it, even if it would calm his nerves. Even if Vaughn deserved to know how deeply Rhys had fucked this all up for them, Rhys couldn’t find the heart to speak about it.

Luckily, Vaughn knew when to avoid a subject, at least for the time being. “Alright. So, vulnerability is out. I know it’s a weird thing to ask of you, considering the circumstances, but could you avoid doing anything that would make him think you guys are anything other than spiteful colleagues?”

Rhys snorted. “Should be easy. I’m feeling a little vindicated in my spitefulness anyway.”

“Perfect,” Vaughn said. “So keep it professional, leave emotions out of it, build your program, figure out how to undo this mess, and we can get the hell off of this station. Easy stuff for a guy like you. You don’t even have to micromanage.”

Rhys flopped back onto the bed, his energy sapped and his stomach grumbling angrily. “Fine. I can do that,” he agreed, though he wasn’t fully convinced of his own promise. To avoid Vaughn calling him out of the easy compliance, he quickly changed the subject. “What’s the news from HQ?”

Vaughn turned to glare at him from the bedside. “Are you just asking me so you can have something to fall asleep to?”

“Noooo,” Rhys admonished. “I really care about the profit margin and integrity of… what was it? Pharmaceuticals being pulled from adverts, or…”

Vaughn groaned irritably, and set about correcting him. 

 

///

 

Jack retreated back to his penthouse once he’d made a proper mess of his office. The local server and CPU still stood steady, retaining the code they’d built that day, but he summoned a cleaner bot to take care of the rest. Anger management was never his defining trait, and Rhys had forced him to cycle through enough emotions today that he felt validated in subjecting the room to his frustrations. 

He could still feel Rhys creeping around in his skull, flitting through his thoughts like a ghost: something he couldn’t corner and pin down and beat into submission. Their heightened emotions seemed to have jolted the connection into overdrive, and his brain felt like a raw nerve, open and susceptible -- both desperate to feel on an instinctual level, yet cringing from the exposure. 

He needed to slow them down. Put distance between them, both physically and emotionally. It would be difficult, considering their joint project, but Jack could verbally shred Rhys to pieces if that’s what it took to maintain some semblance of separation. 

Once comfortably hidden away in his penthouse, with Angel clanging around in the kitchen for one thing or another, he flicked open his inbox. 

 

> **FROM:** RAMSEY.JACOB_303477@HYPERION.ECHO
> 
> **TO:** HYPERION_JACK@HYPERION.ECHO
> 
> **SUBJECT:** Cell Prisoner 014   
>    
>  Sir, 
> 
> As requested, the prisoner has received medical care, and is clear from life-threatening infections. He eats sparily, but maintains health. He still refuses to offer intel, though he’s been warned his meals will come less frequently as time goes on and no new information is obtained. I will continue this method until I’m ordered otherwise. 
> 
>  
> 
> Jacob R. Ramsey
> 
> Head of Security
> 
> Hyperion Corporation
> 
> ECHO-ID: RAMSEY.CLIVE_303477@HYPERION.ECHO 

  
  


Jack stared at the message without reading much. Roland was outliving his usefulness, but Jack had always known the idiot would end up dying nobly in a jail cell before ratting out his Raiders. Lilith couldn’t possibly be worth that kind of lackluster ending, but Roland’s pride might. Either way, at least Jack had offered him a choice. He’d keep Roland alive long enough to use a bargaining chip once he found Lilith, but if it proved easier to let him rot, Jack wouldn’t hesitate. 

After all, Roland didn’t hesitate to try and kill him on Helios. He’d just be repaying a favor. 

He scanned through a few more emails. Bureaucratic nonsense, mostly -- something he easily delegate to Angel and her own personal team of advisors. She’d scheduled him for a meeting with the cyro department of R&D tomorrow, directly after working with Rhys, and hoped she knew that meant the eggheads would be dealing with the brunt of his irritation. 

As he scowled at his schedule, a personal message blipped into existence.

> [ **Timothy** ]: Hey boss, you got a minute? 

Jack sighed and brought up the keypad to respond. Tim was an incredible assent, and his loyalty couldn’t be touched, but his  _ passion  _ for shit wore Jack out sometimes. He’d never known another man to be both so steadfast, yet entirely changeable. His whims were quiet, but they were strong.

> [ **Jack** ]: What do you need, Timmers?
> 
> [ **Timothy** ]: You said you’d approve me for a team for this Cater woman. That still on the table?

Jack poured himself a small glass of bourbon from the set on his desk and stared at the message, curious. Tim had never asked for a team before. In fact, he was nearly vicious in insisting that he work alone. He used to work in tandem with Wilhelm, but Wilhelm...changed. For the worst. Even Jack couldn’t sit down with the guy anymore without feeling like the only human in the room. Athena was long gone, forging a life for herself planetside, and Aurelia had grown weary of playing Vault Hunter and retreated back to one of her mansions. 

Tim was alone, and Jack had figured he preferred it that way. Still, he always offered to send a few soldiers with him, ones from the elite security team that were well aware of the separate identities, but Tim always declined. 

> [ **Jack** ]: It is if you want it. The docket of people who know you aren’t me is as low as it’s always been though, buddy. You make friends?
> 
> [ **Timothy** ]: A strong word. Friends? No. Someone who won’t bother me every moment we’re on Pandora? Yes. I want the Atlas advisor, Fiona Erins. 

Jack shut his eyes in disbelief as the message came through. Had everyone in his inner circle lost their goddamn minds? Atlas was approaching  _ virus  _ status, and one he wasn’t prepared to internally combat. He was already well aware of the ridiculous little messages the Atlas engineer was sending his goddamn  _ daughter,  _ but Fiona was something of a surprise. She was an aloof, distrustful woman from what Jack had seen, and nothing about her portrayed any desire for external colleagues. Or friends. 

When had Tim even  _ spoken  _ to her?

> [ **Jack** ]: What, you couldn’t get the head dickbag, so you had to settle for scraps?
> 
> [ **Timothy** ]: Lol, I’m not touching Rhys with a ten foot pole. I saw that look you gave him in Wurmwater when he stabbed that guy. I don’t even want to know what happened afterwards, boss. 

Jack scoffed to himself, but his fingers hesitated over the keys as he tried to type out his denial. Tim would have been high up on the overhang, watching the battle through a sniper scope, taking in all the little nuances of that day. The memory sliced through Jack’s coherent thought, and he watched as Rhys wiped the blood from his knife and stared Jack down with wide, adrenaline-dilated pupils. Jack’s stomach flipped wildly, and he shook the image from his head, feverently reminding himself that he had already taken Rhys. Any lingering want was simply residual, and would inevitably fade. 

Tim wrote again, before Jack could fluster up an answer. 

> [ **Timothy** ]: She’s been seeking some peace down in the storage levels. We met there. She needs a purpose, and as Rhys's trainer, I figure she’s handy to have if shit goes down. Plus, I’m pretty sure she can’t stand me, so no distractions.
> 
> [ **Jack** ]: You realize you’re an idiot for asking me, right?
> 
> [ **Timothy** ]: I do. But I don’t ask for much. 

Jack cursed quietly to himself and downed a swallow of bourbon. Tim had him there. Jack had pushed and pulled that kid for the past decade, and Tim never stumbled. Whatever complaints Tim had, they remained unspoken, and for his unwavering dedication, Jack turned a blind eye to many of Tim’s idiosyncrasies (like this new hobby of adopting abandoned Atlas personnel). 

> [ **Jack** ]: Fine. But I want her fitted with a tracker, and I want updates every four hours. 
> 
> [ **Jack** ]: Also, this counts as your holiday bonus. 
> 
> [ **Jack** ]: For the next two years.
> 
> [ **Timothy** ]: You got it, boss. 

Jack read between the lines to find the  _ thank you  _ that Tim knew Jack didn’t want to hear. It was a delicate balance of positioning their personalities to align without ever truly mingling, and they were still learning after all these years. 

He thought of Rhys, and wondered how much a relationship would suffer if there were no secrets. He wondered how deeply you had to imbed yourself in another's life before you lost your identity; before you simply became an extension of the person you choose, doomed to become a replica of their mannerisms and traits, swallowing your own disposition, piece by piece. 

The thought horrified him. 

But of course, thinking of Rhys had been a mistake, and the longer he stared at his bourbon, the less clarity he retained. The room was wobbling at the edges, as though Rhys had disrupted the waters of his mind, sending ripples across his vision. The view changed, his body shifted in weightlessness, and very suddenly, he was lying across a bed in an unmistakable Hyperion suite. 

Jack knew what was happening, but the urge to act against it was out of his control. The sharper edges of the world were fuzzy, as though looking through a veil, and Jack couldn’t blink the distortion from his eyes. The cotton linen that covered the bed was soft underneath his fingertips as he ran them sleepily across the dull yellow, and as much as he ached to stand, to shake off this unwanted intrusion, he couldn’t force his will on Rhys's body. 

The bespectacled CFO was there, pacing across the room as he read reports from various departments across Atlas, and the sound of his voice was calming, therapeutic. Jack knew the idea should repulse him, but Rhys's contentment was flowing across him like sinking into a warm bath, easing tensions and relaxing muscles. 

Eventually, Jack relinquished the internal struggle and let Rhys have his peace. He felt his eyes begin to close, the dull throb from his neural implant begging him for sleep. Vaughn’s voice continued its soft rambling, offering commentary and analysis like some corporate fairytale designed to pacify even the most restless of executives. 

When Rhys finally fell asleep and Jack was jolted back to his own body with an uncomfortable lurch, he relinquished his close-fisted grip on the glass of bourbon and hung his head in his hands. 

He couldn’t decide what terrified him more: the progression of their connection, or how much he enjoyed the serene domesticity Rhys had exposed him to.   
  


///

 

Fiona pressed herself against the seat behind her, willing the straps across her chest to tighten further and prevent her body from being flung against the triple-paned windshield. Tim sat beside her in the pilot’s chair, fingers tapping leisurely against the controls as they blazed through Pandora’s atmosphere. 

“You can take over for the autopilot anytime now!” Fiona yelled over the horrible sound of rattling panels. 

Tim just flashed her a lazy smile. “What’s the point of technology if you don’t use it? She knows how to land herself.”

The tiny transport gave an awful lurch as it hit an air pocket, as if disagreeing, and Fiona gripped the side of her seat so hard she figured they’d have her fingerprints imprinted on there permanently. 

“You want to leave our  _ lives  _ to the functionality of busted Hyperion equipment?!”

Tim shrugged, fiddling with the cracked handles of the guidance system like he didn’t understand what they were for. “It’s kind of nice for things to be out of my control once in awhile. I’m guessing you don’t feel the same?” 

Fiona only glared at him as they broke through the atmosphere and the transport stopped shaking. She could definitely  _ not  _ relate to Tim’s sentiment, as she had spent most of her adolescent fighting for a firm grip on her existence. Handing it over seemed not only contradictory, but reckless. Speaking up in her own defense would be futile though, considering she had willingly answered Tim’s message, asked for an escort to the docking bay, and climbed in next to him of her own free will. 

She consoled her rash decisions with the excuse that Tim’s lackadaisical suggestions  _ needed  _ her control, otherwise they would loom over her, pestering her waking hours and reminding her of all those roads she regretted not travelling. She couldn’t help their situation inside that tech-guilded suite, but out here, she could learn. Tim may be unusual company, but he was probably the closest thing Jack had to a friend. Connections were everything, and she was determined to learn how to exploit them. 

Swallowing the vertigo and sour feeling in her gut, she cautiously peered down to the looming expanse of ground below them. Snow covered the mountains and valleys, creating a stark contrast against the heat and dry deserts she was usually exposed to. 

“So this is the Tundra,” Fiona mumbled, already cursing herself for her own curiosity. Exploring a region of Pandora she hadn’t been to was a major pull in agreeing to Tim’s insane proposal, and she knew it. Hopefully Tim wouldn’t catch on to her weakness for exploration, because it was a viable distraction. 

“Never been?” Tim asked, and the question sounded sincere. Like a man across the aisle of a train, striking up casual conversation.

“No,” she answered, jerking her hands tight as their direction shifted to the right towards an open valley. “Not this far.”

“Not a lot of bandits out here,” Tim explained. “Too cold for them, they die off pretty quick. We’ll be setting down up on that overhang, about two miles away from a place called Frozen Pines.”

Fiona followed his gesture and spotted the overhang in the distance, cutting into the mountain side like a long-standing relic of some vicious battle. There were trees placed sporadically across the landscape, like someone had sprinkled flora across the ice, but they were petrified and frozen stiff. Many of them had fallen, leaving odd, ice covered lumps across barren landscape. Just another altered climate, courtesy of some opened Vault.

Despite Tim’s assurances, Fiona was internally grateful when he switched the autopilot off and sat up a little straighter in his seat to focus on landing them. Above all else, Fiona knew he was good at his job, and if he could survive being the double of a man  _ despised  _ by an entire planet, she knew he could at least land their transport with moderate efficiency. But the lack of control still sat like lead in her stomach. 

The air hit her hard as she stepped out, as though her skin was pinching itself together to avoid the fresh batch of frozen-tinted hell. Her boots cracked against the layer of ice that blanketed the rocky ground, and she briefly entertained the idea that Tim had brought her up here to kill her and let the tundra freeze the evidence. 

“Here,” Tim mumbled behind her, digging something out of the undercarriage storage. He handed her a long, thick coat that reached down to her ankles and mimicked the white landscape around them. “It’s insulated, but it also has this neat heat adapter thing that regulates your body temperature. You won’t catch hypothermia, but you also won’t sweat yourself dry.”

Fiona examined the thing mildly before shrugging it on. “Weird. You know how it works?”

“Not really. Do you actually care?”

“Not really.”

Tim stuck his arms through his own thermal adaptive jacket and passed her some sleek leather gloves and a thick bundle of cloth to cover her mouth and head. They doubled their layers in an easy silence, finding a cautionary alliance in being two animals that were neither predator nor prey. Finally, Tim held out his hand for hers, to draw her closer. 

“I have to put a tracker in you.”

Fiona jerked back, annoyed that she had already started the movement to obey without question. “Whoa, nu-uh.”

She expected Tim to grab her anyway and force on whatever ‘tracker’ he had. Her body was already tensed for the fight, and her eyes were flicking carefully around the rocks, looking for the easiest possible path away from him. 

Instead, Tim held out his own palm, revealing a small little square of foreboding black. The edges had little pinpricks jutting out from them, like the tiny teeth of flytraps, waiting patiently for some fool to get too close. 

“I don’t expect you to be happy about it, but it was part of the agreement. I’ll remove it as soon as we’re back to the station.” He paused, reading her expression, and sighed. “Look, it’s just a tracker, I swear it. And I  _ know  _ you’re gonna try and dig it out, but please don’t. It’s linked to my biosignature, so if anyone other than me messes with it, it’ll poison you faster than you can rip it off.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

Tim stared at her, that particular frown setting into place that Fiona used to see from Felix. It was fond exasperation, though this was more authentic, less tainted with combative history and teenage hormones. She stared contentiously back, and he apparently decided that arguing the merit of something wouldn’t work in this particular situation, and sighed.

“Just put the damn tracker on, Fiona--”

 She scoffed. “Real easy for you to demand, isn’t it? Like it’s some simple thing to jam yourself full Hyperion tech and have every corporate asshole know exactly where you are! You don’t a _clue_ how fucked that is! I… It isn’t…”

She trailed off clumsily as he smiled patiently at her, amused despite the glint of emotional weariness in his eyes. With a steady, uncomfortable ache, she realized she was lecturing autonomy to a man stuck inside a body that wasn’t his. A man who couldn’t even claim the peace of staring out at the horizon as his own, for it was being recorded and transmitted back to Jack, the man who bought and paid for him. The man who owned him. 

No one knew the lack of personal freedom less than Timothy Lawrence.

“Right,” she continued, because apologizing was  _ not  _ something she’d do for Tim, despite her faux pas. “Just, do it quick, I guess.”

She held out her arm, but he shook his head. 

“Sorry. I can’t put them on extremities anymore; too many people have sawed their own arms off to get out of it.”

“And I have to pay for their mistakes?” Fiona asked wildly. What did that mean? Where exactly was Tim planning on putting that tiny little teeth-ridden thing? She was quickly regretting this expenditure, and trying to figure out the best possible way to tell Rhys she had fucked up without earning his snark. 

Tim chuckled easily. “Of course you do. So, where do you want it?”

“Oh, so I get a choice now?” Fiona grumbled.

“Yes, you do. I’d suggest underneath your collar bone, personally. It’ll itch your neck if you go too high, and I find it gets in the way of combat if it’s anywhere on the midriff.” 

“...Okay. I guess.”

What was she supposed to say? ‘No’ was clearly not an option here, and if she  _ really  _ had to, she could still carve the damn thing out of her skin without ever touching it. It wasn’t a thrilling consolation, but she’d lived her life on a ‘take what you can get’ mantra. 

She pushed her new (incredibly warm) coat out of the way and moved the collar of her shirt far enough down to give Tim and his little black square of bullshit access. It wasn’t lewd or sexual in any way, but she still found herself holding her breath as he drew near. He was still dressed in Jack’s usual garb of tacky denim and collared shirts, but with the heavy jacket draped over him and most of his face hidden, she was keenly aware of how different a man he was. His presence was less extravagant than Jack’s, but it was firmer. More solid. Substance over form. 

Tim focused on his task, putting a heavy arm on her shoulder to hold her still as he lined the tracker up. “You ready?”

She nodded, keeping her eyesight firmly focused on the distant snowy horizon, as if she might be able to teleport there from sheer will. Tim pushed the small square up against her skin, and she felt each little prick as they embedded themselves in the flesh beneath her collarbone. She tried to keep her face straight, but couldn’t help the wince of pain as Tim pressed his thumb against it, likely activating it and linking it to his biosignature. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, staring at the tracker as though it personally tilted his morality. “I’ll take it off as soon as we’re back on Helios.”

“So you say,” she said back, stepping away from Tim and pulling her coat tighter around herself. The moment she moved clear of the solid figure before her, the air became colder, free to ignore Tim’s previous barricade and wrap itself around every exposed bare inch of her skin. Not that she cared. Knowing exactly what awaited her was always useful, and she’d be damned before she let herself succumb to cozy ignorance. 

He ignored her comment and crunched across the ice, pulling a half assembled rifle from their tiny transport. Once he returned, he pointed south, where the Elpis was beginning its daily crest over the horizon. 

“See that camp down there? In the distance? Look for the smoke.”

She did, stepping forward to get a closer look at whatever camp they were supposed to do reconnaissance against. 

“Yeah. I can see a Technical, off to the right there. That where we’re going?”

“Nope,” Tim responded cheerfully, crouching down to piece together an impressive Hyperion sniper rifle. “We’re here to figure out what kind of communications are going through there, and how often people are coming and going. We’ll be sitting our happy asses up here for at least twelve hours, monitoring.”

“Seriously?” Fiona hissed. “You said you needed backup, not a campfire partner!”

“I do. There’s a temporary Slaughterhouse about six miles to the east, and Bandits are crawling all over it. I can’t keep watch for stragglers  _ and  _ monitor Cater’s camp at the same time. Hence: you. I’ll need you to watch my back so I can focus on getting intel.”

Fiona tried not to be jarred by Tim’s unreasonable trust in her, but it was rather like outrunning an earthquake. It was going to catch her, and it would knock her off her feet with its severity when it did. Until then, she sat down next to Tim and did the only thing she could think to do. 

Demand a weapon. 

“Fine. But I want my Chimera.”

The fiddling stopped, and Tim looked at her.  _ Really  _ looked at her, his face half hidden from his hood and shemagh. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“No.”

“Are you going to attempt to bash my head in with it?”

“ _ No. _ ”

He continued to stare at her, unconvinced, and rightfully so. Fiona had already considered at least four different strategies for getting the upper hand in this outing, but each was more disastrous than the last. Plus, her gut twisted irritably when she thought about the look of disappointment Tim would give her before she cracked him across the jaw. 

“I  _ won’t,” _   she reiterated, and the more she said it, the more she realized she meant it. “I don’t know how to fly myself back, anyway.”

“Just use the autopilot,” Tim smirked, fully enjoying the pissed off look he got in response, before rising to fetch her gun. 

 

///

 

Rhys walked into Jack’s office with a renewed sense of purpose and Vaughn’s sublime advice blanketing all the anxiety in his head. His body still felt slightly off-kilter, as though he drank too much but wasn’t quite hungover, just sluggish and neglected. 

_ “You’re better at this game than he is, Rhys. You’ve been playing it since you were eight. Remember? You talked me right into a 30/70 split on the lemonade stand profits.” _

Vaughn was right, of course. He’d been an idiot about the lemonade thing, but in terms of managing a problem, Vaughn was Rhys's most valuable asset. And he’d long learned to heed the advice of someone who managed to put up with him for twenty solid years. 

So when Rhys walked in five minutes until eight with a coffee in his hand and his attention decidedly not on Jack, he knew  _ exactly  _ what he was doing. 

“What, sweetheart, no tie?”

Rhys knew he was being goaded, but for all of Jack’s covert operations, he sure as fuck wore his intentions on his sleeve. The inflection of annoyance was nearly drowned out by the urgency for interaction, the immediate proclivity to grab the situation by the throat and assert his jurisdiction.

Rhys took his seat behind a new desk -- an expensive replacement, either needed because Jack had wrecked his, or because it wouldn’t do to have subpar furnishings where Jack conducted business. He’d dressed even less purposefully today, determined to be focused on his work and nothing more. His shirt’s collar hung open and unbuttoned, and the jacket had stayed tucked away in his closest where it wouldn’t stifle the movement of his arms. 

“I’m here to work, Jack, not dazzle you with fashion.”

“And when have you ever done either of those?”

Rhys shut his eyes and took a steady breath. Jack wanted him to respond,  _ wanted  _ the argument to cultivate into something he could power-move his way out of. Jack couldn’t conquer the playing field if he didn’t bully his competition into showing up. 

But Rhys just wasn’t in the fucking  _ mood  _ to play. Not after yesterday. He sat down and opened up his fledgling program with a system command from his Eye, doing a quick scan to make sure there was nothing secretly installed that could potentially hijack his internal functions. He spent a few moments organizing his virtual workstation, perpetually aware of Jack’s eyes on him. Of the very  _ existence  _ of the man. Jack, apparently, couldn’t stand the silence.

“No smart-assed comments from the ritzy peanut gallery?”

“I just want to get this done, and undo this goddamn mess,” Rhys snapped, his vocals wound tight. “The less I have of you inside me, the better.” 

He expected Jack to laugh at the comment, to remark about how, only twenty hours ago, Rhys had been fascinated by the idea of sharing  _ anything  _ with Jack. What Rhys got, however, was something entirely different. There was a pang in his chest that had nothing to do with his own emotions, and Jack turned away from him quickly, as though he needed to abscond gracefully from the conversation with his dignity intact before Rhys could realize he’d struck him dumb. 

They began their work in silence, and while Rhys recognized that the tension from yesterday had faded somewhat, they still weren’t operating like they had the previous morning. And yet, despite the bitterness, his body was still reacting to the proximity; something inside of him would bow like a plucked string with every movement Jack made, desperately trying to resonate. 

It was quickly tearing down the defenses Rhys swore he wouldn’t let fall. He felt like he was on the cusp of a relapse, and nothing was stopping him but his own damned pride. 

“Why are you having me add in so many frickin’ failsafes?” Jack groused. “You’re sprinkling the whole damn program with them, like some weird, fucked up cyber-cake.”

“You’re used to coding machines,” Rhys answered, as professionally as he dared. “Have you ever created something that needs to understand the nuances of both mechanical and organic manner?”

“I had some scientists mount a plasma gun on a varkid one time. Does that count?”

Rhys turned to give Jack the most exasperated look he could muster, but the moment his body angled itself slightly towards Jack’s infuriating presence, satisfaction swelled in his chest. Alarmed at the sudden endorphins, Rhys caught himself quickly and refocused on his work, willing the fluttering in his heart to cage itself. 

“It doesn’t count, no.” Rhys paused, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. “How’d that turn out anyway?”

“Half the lab ended up gettin’ fried, and I had to eject the damn thing into space. You can still see it orbiting the left pillar of Helios sometimes. A few idiots tried to fish it out with a janitorial bot, and now that’s out there too, floating around. Kind of funny.”

Rhys swallowed thickly, because the hesitance in Jack’s voice was unmistakable. He didn’t know how to proceed with Rhys' newfound disinterest in their rivalry, and when Jack had nothing to outshine, he almost seemed to dim within himself. Like he had to rediscover who he was. 

There was a strange pulse of shame filtering through the silence that followed, and Rhys somehow knew that Jack felt just as pathetic as his words were. 

And Rhys, god help him, let Jack play the pity card.

“In machines,” Rhys began calmly, if only to diffuse the awkwardness in the room, “you only have to worry about how the parts interact with one another. Each piece does exactly what it’s designed to do, and the only connections you have to worry about are the connections  _ you’ve  _ created, the ones you’ve built from the ground up.”

Jack turned towards him as Rhys explained, leaning back in his chair as though he might actually be listening. The idea of Jack’s attention frightened Rhys way more now than it did the day he arrived, when he had served Handsome Jack up a plate of bullshit supported by nothing other than Rhys's own arrogance. 

Jack had been a means to an end, then. A blockade that Rhys had to bypass to continue on the path he had set for himself. Both of them had knives in their sleeves and iron plates on their backs. But now, Jack was a figure of relaxation and ease before him, and Rhys found himself  _ wanting  _ to explain the intricacies to him the same way he would to a colleague. 

“Hence, the cure-all failsafe,” Jack supplied helpfully. “So what difference does it make, designing a program that’s gotta analyze brain mush as well as tech?”

Rhys couldn’t help it. Sasha frequently called him out on being a show-off, but she had only scratched the surface of how deep the insult could run. Rhys was prideful, and he craved attention. And Jack, damn him, was ready to give it. Whether or not the curiosity stemmed from an honest desire to understand the process, or because Jack was searching for ways to rein Rhys back where he wanted, Rhys didn’t care. 

This was, after all, a joint project. And if Jack was going to assist, Rhys could at least do him the courtesy of explaining the process. That’s all it was. The desire to hear Jack speak in a tone that didn’t radiate contempt was only a bonus. 

“It’s less about  _ brain mush  _ and more about the system that connects it. Alright, listen--” He turned towards Jack and the inviting picture he made, because somehow, seeing him tangible and so  _ close _ made it easier to speak. “Your brain is made up of neurons, right? The cells that carry electrical impulses. Every single neuron can make a connection to any ten thousand or so neurons next to it, and there are  _ billions  _ of them. There are more connections in a single centimeter of your brain than there are stars in this galaxy.” 

He paused, trying to remember those lectures he used to breeze through back in the Edens. Most of his students had more than fundamental knowledge on the subject, but Jack, he was an engineer. How to explain the dynamics of the brain to a man who dreamed in resolutes? How do you explain science to a God? 

“These... connections, they can’t be controlled, guided, or manipulated -- they operate on a frequency only they determine, right? And letting any kind of tech run unregistered through their system could be catastrophic if you don’t have a way to cut off the flow.”

“And the failsafes you pepper in there, you’re telling me they’d have  _ time  _ to stop a process that happens at lightspeed?” Jack frowned at him, as though disappointed. “I’m no neuroscientist, babe, but even I can tell you that won’t work.”

“Think of them less like switches that need to be flipped in a hurry, and more like...roadblocks. If the program starts running unchecked, or it starts trying to open up doors I’ve determined that I want  _ shut,  _ there are roadblocks that prevent that path from ever being available to them.”

Jack remained unconvinced. “You’re telling me that the connections in my brain are being made without my consent, and there’s nothing you can do to direct it, control it? That some system of shitty little neurons has more power in my own head than me? I thought you could tap into that shit, you know, with your cybernetics or whatever. Isn’t that the point of this?”

Rhys shook his head. “All I can do is manufacture a connection between organic and artificial parts. My job is essentially asking my brain to allow this new structure to be considered friendly, and to mirror the biological makeup as best I can in a manmade prosthetic.”

“Why though?” Jack asked, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees. “Why not take it further and tap into that brain process? Imagine what you could learn from understanding how those operations work! The applications are limitless, Rhysie.”

Here, Rhys figured, is where Jack and him differed. Rhys had respect for the things he studied, and knew where to draw the line (most of the time). Jack though, Jack craved to be the galaxy’s most affluent information broker -- demanding to claim knowledge like treasured little keepsakes, pulling them out when he’d need them, stuffing them away when they proved to be of no immediate use. 

“Consciousness is only good in limited amounts, Jack,” Rhys explained quietly. “If we had to absorb everything we learn on a conscious level, we would overthink. We wouldn’t be able to react instinctively. A reaction takes four-tenths of a second, whereas conscious awareness takes half a second. It doesn’t seem like much, but if you had to do that for every decision that happens within and outside of your body?” He shook his head. “No, some things are better left to their own devices. You don’t mess around with a system that’s perfected the ability to keep you alive, to keep you functioning in the exact way you need -- even if we don’t realize it.”

“But why would you not want to exercise control over your actions?” Jack pressed on, and Rhys knew they were hitting a little too close to home. Even now, his hands itched to reach out and touch the man before him, just for the satisfaction of doing it. He willed the desire away and tried to think of an appropriate metaphor to answer Jack’s power-mongering question. 

“How many departments do you have here, on Helios?”

“Maybe, two dozen, with about fifty or so sub-departments, and hundreds of internal departments below them. Why?”

Rhys put his hand on his chin and met Jack’s eyes, if only to quell the anxiety that festered underneath his skin at the distance between them. “Alright. So, imagine you had to partake in every decision that every department and sub-department makes, on a second-to-second basis. You had to regulate feeding times for the animals in testing; you had to personally organize work schedules, and decide whether Mandy over in HR is allowed to take that vacation day on Tuesday. You had to cook the food, write the reports, and oversee every sentry. How much could you get done in a day?”

“Very little,” Jack responded lightly, “Considering I’d have killed myself about an hour in.”

Rhys grinned, and Jack cracked a smile, as though they were sharing some secret joke the rest of the world couldn’t possibly hope to understand. His heart jittered in satisfaction, urging him to press further into familiar grounds, to keep the levity up long enough to buoy them back into a comfortable cohabitation.   

“So, good, you get what I’m saying. You delegate the minute details to others, and then make your overall decisions based on what your department heads relay back to you. All these employees you have represent the unconscious thought -- they take in the world and adjust it to  _ your _ wants and needs, before relaying their decisions back up to you. The information you get didn’t come from your own actions though, but rather, the inner workings that happened behind the scenes. You obtain that information, then react accordingly.”

“Like whether or not I should sign off on a prototype, or slit the head designer’s throat for half-assing it.”

“I mean...sure, yeah,” Rhys agreed reluctantly. “Weird analogy, but you get it. Your conscious thought is only responsible for a small percentage of your actions, and you’re only aware of the big picture aspects. Your mind functions the same way your corporation does.”

A short silence followed as Jack digested Rhys's explanation, but the questions were already hovering between them, and Rhys knew what Jack would ask far before the words formed on his lips. 

“And this program of yours… it’s going to figure out how deep this brainwave runs? How many neurons we have shacking up together?”

“Yes. It should give me a full view of our connection, without opening the way for any unwanted fusion. I don’t know what will happen if I were to completely open that link, and I don’t really want to find out, considering everything that’s happened so far.”

“And once you see it, you’ll be able to fix it?”

Jack sounded impatient and terse, like Rhys was another underling that was failing to impress him. Rhys tried not to remember that the definition suited him nicely. 

“I don’t know,” Rhys cut him off quickly. “All I know is that our brains are trying to create connections, and I have no idea how to stop them. I’ve never had to  _ prevent  _ brain function before; I’ve only ever encouraged it. Expanded upon it. This is kind of a new area for me.”

Jack scoffed, and effectively smothered the upwards spike of tentative forgiveness. Agitation was fizzling to life between them, borne of Jack’s impatience and condescending attitude, combated by Rhys's outright refusal to be bullied. The solid ground that had been paving itself below them was crumbling, and Rhys knew that if they weren’t careful, they’d end up reliving another useless work day, falling prey to the bitter unknown that hovered between them. 

“Well, that was real informative,” Jack sighed, “But I’ll be honest, I’m glad I didn’t wait six years for a chance to sit in little Dr. Rhysie’s lecture hall, only to be told you’ve applied  _ drastic  _ limitations on science.”

Rhys snorted. “Please. As if I’d have accepted your application. My students are taught to respect the things they study, not try and trademark them.”

Jack didn’t take well to the jab, and his disposition plunged. 

“Like that’s a bad thing? Your  _ respect  _ just means you won’t be able to solve problems when they arise. And they  _ do  _ arise. Imagine if you had started looking into this shit years ago -- we wouldn’t be having this stupid little powwow in order for  _ you  _ to play catchup,” Jack snarled accusingly. “You could have been pioneering your field instead of fucking around with cybernetics, trying to work  _ around  _ everything instead of making it work for  _ you.  _ That’s what a leader would do.” He scoffed, looking away. “But hell, you’re real good at playing pretend, aren’t you?” 

Rhys thought his teeth were going to break at how hard he was grinding them together. It was Henderson all over again, and it hurt just as much. More, even, because part of him knew Jack was backpedaling to a home base where he felt safe and secure by belittling others. 

“You can’t control everything, Jack.”

“The hell I can’t!” Jack shot back, the words snapping from him as if they had been spring-loaded. “And if you think otherwise -- which you probably do, because you feel like you have some kind of stupid moral high-ground -- you’re a frickin’ idiot.”

“You can’t control  _ t his, _ _”_   Rhys shouted back, turning to glare at the man beside him as the discontent in his chest unfurling like a waking beast. “And you can’t control half the other shit in your life, either!”

Jack’s hands twitched on the table. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Rhys said instantly, realizing that he was treading water deeper than he could swim, and that Jack was petty enough to power through the pain of hurting him. “Just--”

“ _ No,  _ what the  _ fuck  _ did you mean?”

Jack had stopped yelling, which was the worst thing of all. Rhys hadn’t disappointed a lot of people in his life -- mostly because he made it clear that no one should accept selflessness from him -- but he knew the quiet sound of fury incarnate. 

He also knew Jack, which meant he wasn’t escaping from this conversation any time soon. He was better off subjecting himself to the consequences sooner rather than later. 

“I don’t need to explain it to you,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “I don’t need to bring up Nisha, who was a fucking bitch, by the way. Or the way you smother Angel, because you’re terrified that she’ll need you and you won’t be there.” Rhys swallowed heavily, hating that leveling the ground beneath them required him to repave it with bitter words and insecurity.

“You--”

“--And I  _ definitely  _ don’t want to talk about your anger, and how you use it to cover up any weakness you find. I don’t want to bring up why you pushed me away yesterday--” (Rhys could barely stomach the lurch in his chest here, though he wasn’t certain it came from his own reactions). “...You’re a mess, Jack. And I don’t have to have some fucked up connection to see that. So before you start calling me a  _ coward  _ for not mucking around in someone’s brain for a power-trip, have the courage to get your own fucking life together.”

Rhys was expecting it, but much like expecting thunder after the lightning, knowing it was coming didn’t make it any less alarming. Jack moved with purpose, towering above him to pull Rhys up roughly by his shirt collar. His free hand curled around Rhys' cybernetic arm, as though Jack thought he could overpower a machine by an intimidating demeanor alone. Still, Rhys let himself be pulled, because apparently shock was the only way to kick-start his self-preservation instincts and get him to shut the fuck  _ up _ . 

“See, you don’t get to talk to me that way,” Jack hissed, fingers curling around Rhys's throat as he injected the air with the venom from his words. “You don’t get to say  _ shit _ , because everything was fucking fine until  _ you  _ showed up.”

Rhys needed to respond, needed to convince himself that he was still a functioning party in this exchange, because every sense was overloaded with  _ Jack,  _ and Rhys was drowning. Jack’s rage encased him and shut out the rest of the world until it was nothing but an intangible shadow of a former life. He needed to undo the damage, but the moment his lips parted, Jack’s fingers tightened, like some fucked up balancing scale. Air became a burden, massively underappreciated until it was denied to him, and he searched Jack’s face wildly for some inclination on what he was supposed to do. 

Green and blue swam in front of him, but there was no maniacal grin to accompany it, no spark of satisfaction. Jack’s eyes were heavy, shallow bags supporting them as though sleep had become some distant, sought-after peace. Jack’s breathing was strained, his own physical threats working against him. This wasn’t a man who took pleasure in his actions; this was a man that was hurting, breaking apart and crumbling like withered scraps.  

“Atlas is a  _ sickness, _ ” Jack seethed, and Rhys clasped onto his arm out of reflex. “You’re infecting everything I’ve built here. Angel’s chasing after a  _ murderer,  _ Tim’s tangled up with that fucking Pandoran, and  **_you_ ** \-- you brought ALL of this down on us. You and that fucking Vault!”

He flexed his grip and Rhys's vision went white on the edges. The nails of his organic hand scraped at Jack’s arms uselessly, of their own accord. His chest burned.

“I want you gone,” Jack gasped, his own breathing turning ragged. “I want all of it gone. You’ve changed it all, everything I--”

He cut himself off, eyes angry and betrayed like Rhys had led him out of the safety of his own home to be gunned down in the street. He could feel the fluctuating emotions between them, Jack’s frustration and fear as poignant as Rhys's own displaced alarm. Jack wore so many masks, and Rhys's brain was swimming with the dangerous knowledge that he was of the few people who knew just how deep the personal deceit went. He hadn’t asked for this. He didn’t want--

“I’m sorry--” Rhys coughed out, struggling against the encompassing white that was threatening to overtake him. “I didn’t mean -- I didn’t…” he tore at Jack’s arm, and knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold the cybernetic back much longer. His body was going to start making its own choices to survive. “I never wanted you involved. Or Angel. I just -- wanted the tech.” He choked again, and tried to ignore the dichotomy of what Jack’s touch invoked. Terror. Urgency.  _ Need.  _ All of it so tangled and twisted Rhys didn’t know what he craved anymore, and what he feared.

He met Jack’s fiery, breathless expression as best he could, wheezing out a warning. “Don’t make me hurt you, Jack.” 

Somewhere, in the tunnel-vision that had overtaken Jack’s decisions, the small pinprick of light had shone through. His eyes shot down to rove across Rhys's cybernetic arm, and the grip on Rhys's neck loosened just enough for Rhys to swallow a lungful of air. 

He inhaled desperately, literally breathing life back into himself, and the cluster of emotions that were one small incident away from making another scene were revitalized. Breathing  _ hurt _ , but it filled him with a strange appreciation _. _ For the first time since he’d been on Helios, he truly felt the empty space that surrounded him, as though he were saved from the merciless void of infinity by a single, solid object. The recycled air was a delicacy for his lungs, and he breathed it down greedily, thankful for the basics of life for the first time in a very long time. 

Jack’s hands were a solar heat on his arms, basking in the emotional output and shipping fire across his skin. They were still too close, hanging on the edge of a precipice that neither of them were willing to step back from. Rhys's hand instinctively went to his throat to soothe the wound with his own touch, but he met Jack’s hand instead, which still lingered predatorily by Rhys's collar bone. 

The touch caused a thrum of aching in Rhys's chest, and Jack exhaled sharply, still trying to catch his breath, both of them unprepared to deal with the fallout in the delicate moments after. Jack’s eyes were wide, pleading for something in the expanse of Rhys's skin. 

“Fight back,” Jack demanded, and Rhys figured it was the closest attempt at humanity a God could ever achieve. 

So Rhys ignored the pain in his throat, swallowed the shallow desire to throw the punch Jack was obviously begging for, and instead, used his cybernetic to pull Jack into a kiss. 

Jack melted against him immediately, like he’d been shackled to his own decisions and only needed the freedom someone else forced upon him. Rhys gasped softly as Jack bit down on his lip, the pain shadowing the hurt still pulsing in his neck, and Jack immediately ran his tongue across it afterwards; not an apology, exactly, but rather a confirmation of the reaction he intended. Rhys arched his back forwards as Jack’s hand curled around him, drawing him close enough that Rhys could pick up his cologne, the very faint traces of bourbon, and the characteristic remains of workshop smells that perpetually lingered on people that spent too much time working. It reminded him of home. 

“Jack--”

But Jack claimed his mouth again, determined to win the fight Rhys wasn’t sure they were still having. Jack’s hand tangled in his hair, maneuvering his head for better access, while the fingers pressed against his back tore a burning path down to cup his ass, urging Rhys to part his legs just enough to let Jack slip his thigh between them. 

Rhys was too hot. Too many emotions were tearing through his skull, overlayed with a heavy fog of  _ need need need _ that drowned out anything resembling reason. Vaguely, he recalled his promise to Vaughn about keeping the situation under control, but even the small swell of guilt wasn’t enough to overpower the blissful thrum of arousal he got when he pressed his hardening dick up against Jack’s thigh. 

Jack’s fingernails dug into him hard, his approval singing through Rhys's veins. But the very minute Jack had moved his lips down Rhys's neck, his mouth opening to whisper something Rhys very desperately wanted to hear, Jack’s intercom beeped in warning.   
  



	12. pushing on the hammer, to trigger the brain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay. Really, it pained me to take this long, but my opportunities to write are few and far in between, and I unfortunately caught up to myself during the holidays. I'm doing my best to finish this up and get back on track, and I have two more chapters waiting in the wings so far! Thank you endlessly for your patience and your encouraging comments, despite my absence.

///

_“The cards are dealt, and now I’m staring at my hand_

_Looking for something to toss, tryna find a spot to stand_

_The anger I felt as I look across the land_

_It doesn’t equal to the eagerness and hunger to expand"_

///

  
  


_“Dad? I’ve got breakfast.”_  

Jack released him as though he were broken from a trance, startled eyes as surprised as anybody by the turn of events. Rhys's heart lurched at the projection of guilt, though it was getting increasingly difficult to differentiate between Jack’s emotions and his own. 

Jack stepped back from him just as Angel entered, but it did no good; Rhys was still breathing heavily, his shirt collar creased and stuck up by at all the wrong angles by vicious hands, and his hair dramatically mussed out of place. His lip and throat still throbbed in tandem hurt, and he couldn’t even manage to scrounge up the decency to be embarrassed as Angel took one look at them and quickly averted her eyes to the ground. 

Jack retreated even further, stopping only to reholster the discarded pistol on his desk before declaring, a bit too loudly, that he was going to see Levinson. 

“Stay here, and work,” he snarled at Rhys, who only stared blankly back, too transfixed at the perplexity of his fucked-up life to pull himself together. 

Jack made a show of slamming the door behind him, and Angel gave Rhys several seconds to compose himself, which he ungratefully ignored. His heart was still beating hard against his chest, and the swarm of _guiltarousalshamebewilderment_ was turning his head into a jumbled nest of veritable confusion. Finally, Angel cleared her throat loudly and held out the bag she’d brought, as if she wasn’t above treating Rhys like an animal she had to coax out of the cold. 

“Breakfast? It’s only a waffle, but it’s...pretty good. Fancy kind, with toppings and stuff. I got a salad, too, if you... want that instead.”

The ludiricosy of that statement was the only thing that jarred Rhys from his intense staring contest with the far door. 

“A salad? For breakfast?”

She shrugged, moving to sit in her dad’s chair before pulling a face and seeming to think better of it. She pulled an office chair up to Rhys's desk instead and let the bag drop with a crinkly thunk. 

“Dad gave me a lot of sweets when I was in the tank. Junk food and stuff,” she explained, and Rhys couldn’t figure out if she was just trying to fill the silence, or whether she was still intent on maintaining a friendship, even after what she had likely deduced. He waited to be verbally abused, to be side-eyed into oblivion, but she simply continued like normal, still toeing the line between personal and professional. “I think he was trying to make up for… you know. That I had to be in there at all. It was nice for a bit, but I can’t even _look_ at candy now without wanting to puke.”

Rhys snorted out an uncomfortable laugh, willing his poor, emotionally battered body into the seat across from her, his attention only half-invested. His fingers were still shaking with unreleased tension. “Gaige’s eating habits must disgust you, then.”

Angel shrugged again, pulling the containers from the bag, but it clearly wasn’t as offhand as she would have liked it to be. “I wouldn’t really know, I guess -- I don’t actually see her. She does talk about how much she loves the room service, though. I didn’t even know we _made_ doughnuts here.”

Rhys didn’t respond right away, his mind still caught in the whirlwind of emotions the office and its occupants had put him through recently. He could feel Jack’s discontent thrumming through him, coupled with odd zings of apprehension and intolerance. Fear prickled at the back of his neck, and shame curled in his gut.

Wherever he was now, and however dismissive he was when he left, Jack, regardless, was still upset at Angel’s exposure. 

So was Rhys, honestly, and he wasn’t entirely convinced that the emotion belonged to Jack alone. He didn’t think he could sit there with Angel and do her the injustice of poorly-hidden secrets. He’d detest it, and she deserved his acknowledgement, if nothing else. 

He shifted, and motioned vaguely behind himself, where he and Jack had stood only minutes ago, painfully obvious. “Look, I’m really sorry… about that. It’s not--”

“Whatever you’re going to say, save it,” Angel cut him off swiftly. “I don’t like being lied to, and I don’t really want to hear the truth.”

Rhys nodded, allowing himself to be cowed by Angel’s acceptance. Or, at the very least, her dismissal of his flimsy excuses. He pulled the lid from his food and stabbed at his (admittedly, delicious looking) waffle sullenly with his fork. Angel followed suit, digging into her salad with much more gusto. 

“Still, it does explain his moods recently.”

Rhys looked up, watching her stuff a distressing amount of green into her mouth, and decided to take the bait. 

“Isn’t Handsome Jack _always_ in a mood?”

“I guess,” she mumbled mildly. “But he’s been super weird the last few days. Like he’s...freaked out. Paranoid.”

Rhys snorted, feeling the tense bowstrings of his muscles loosen at Angel’s casual disposition. “Yeah. Being in someone else’s head is bound to do that. I...may have puked all over your hallway last night, for example.”

Angel rolled her eyes, popping a baby carrot into her mouth. “Gross. But not what I mean. I’m saying, I think he likes you, and he’s not really a fan of it.” 

It was such an innocent statement, one Rhys had already come to terms with, but it still sent his gut to the floor, taking most of his blood along with it. His fork slipped in his fingers and he fumbled it in urgency, broadcasting his surprise to Angel’s stoic demeanor. 

“But I’m guessing you knew that,” she finished placidly.

“I don’t really. Um--” Rhys regripped the fork. “I’m not--”

“It’s fine. You don’t have to, like, explain it to me. I just wanted you to know that he’s not the best at, you know, _talking_ about it.”

“He’s told me very plainly that he _doesn’t_ want to talk about it,” Rhys muttered darkly. 

“Which should be your biggest hint, honestly. Dad _loves_ talking about stuff he can yell at people to create for him, or, you know, stuff he likes. Stuff he wants, stuff he makes. But anything that doesn’t fit into one of those categories kind of...festers.”

Rhys squished a small corner of buttery waffle into a paste at the edge of his container. “I gotta tell you, Angel, you calling him ‘Dad’ in the middle of this kind of conversation isn’t doing wonders for my psyche.”

“Well, _Doctor,_ you’d know better than anyone I guess,” Angel shrugged lightly. “We don’t have to talk about it. I get that it’s...weird. And I don’t have the best grasp on, like, social cues. I just want you to know that just because he’s a dick and doesn’t want to _talk_ about it doesn’t mean he’s not _aware_ of it, you know? It took him ages before he would talk about Mom.”

Rhys, who had been slowly combing through his last interactions with Jack, looking for telltale signs of emotions manifested as nothing but dismissive anger, snapped his head back up to Angel. “ _Your_ Mom? What did… I mean--”

“She’s dead,” Angel said simply, as if it were a fact she’d looked up in a book one day, rife with curiosity. “I killed her.”

Rhys didn’t dare react. The silence in the room was too tense, ready to shatter at a single movement that hadn’t been premeditated and given explicit permission to exist. Angel seemed to sense the unease that lingered after her tactless admission, and cleared her throat awkwardly before continuing. 

“I didn’t mean to. Obviously. She was a worker down in the Eridium mines, when her and dad were together. Nobody important, according to her records. Just a field researcher. They still didn’t know how to utilize the stuff, back then, or what it could do to people.

“She kept working after she was pregnant, breathing in Eridium and handling it with her bare hands. A lot of pregnant women did. But they…” Angel paused, looking aggrieved, like she didn’t have a word that fully encompassed what she was trying to say. “...No pregnancy for any workers in the mines reached vitality. Except for mom. Once people realized the pattern, pregnant women were transferred to other stations, but by the time the order came, I had already... been born.

“Mom got real sick in the years afterwards,” she continued, her eyes sliding back down to table to avoid Rhys's concerned focus. “Eridium poisoning, but we didn’t know it then. A slow and… kind of gradual illness, like a creeping cancer. She couldn’t work, and stayed home with me while Dad started his whole climb to the top. He poured everything he had into rising through the ranks. He started blackmailing people into furthering Eridium research, trying to find out _anything._ But she didn’t last. One day when I was four, it flared up bad and I got real sick. Passed out. Mom tried to help me, but her body just couldn’t handle it anymore. The more she tried to hold me, the worse she became, until she was just...gone.

“When I woke up again, I was in my chamber. The tube. It was only a prototype, built real fast in a few hours to keep me contained. Dad was there. He told me that mom had an accident, and that I needed to be quarantined, for my safety. I don’t remember much, except that his eyes were red, and he was shaking. It took a long time before he told me what really happened.” She stared down at the table, eyes going a little vacant. “My body, in utero, had somehow survived Eridium exposure when others couldn’t. But whatever defenses I had built were toxic, and I was poisoning Mom from the inside out. Her ...prolonged exposure to me after I was born only fast-tracked the illness.”

Their food had been abandoned. Angel was stirring her salad weakly, her hands on autopilot as she fed back a story that seemed almost rehearsed in it’s efficiency. Rhys recognized the tone. When he was a grad student, studying mental illnesses associated with trauma, patients would often speak of their shocking incidents with the same passive tranquility. As though it wasn’t as bad as everyone imagined it was, and they didn’t understand what the big deal was. 

Other people had suffered worse, they’d tell him. 

“That’s not fair, what happened to you,” he offered quietly. “What happened to her.” 

Angel nodded mildly. “Not a lot of fairness on Pandora. I’m… still learning that. I think Dad is too. He tried to make things better, but you can’t win wars with compassion. Once she died, he tried to change the world--, became desperate to use Eridium for something that could prosper. But those _people,_ Moxxi and Lilith and Roland… they took that from him. That hope. Now, Eridium is a tool at his disposal. Everything is something to be armed. He’s afraid of being weak, I think.” 

Rhys mulled over what she said, trying to imagine the strain, the overwhelming pressure of having the eyes of an entire planet on you, openly betting across the table whether you’d rise or fall. Of how polarizing it would feel to weaponize the substance that had siphoned the spirit from your wife until she lay dead, if only to prove you still had power over it. He tried to imagine visiting a child, unable to touch her as she cried out for him. 

He knew all those feelings. Had experienced them through Jack, unwillingly and resistive. And he wouldn’t choose to feel them again for all the Eridian tech on the planet. 

“I’m not trying to make him weak,” Rhys mumbled finally, reluctantly understanding the point of Angel’s story. “I didn’t mean for any of this. I just wanted the Vault technology for my company, stupid as it seems now. That’s _all_ I came here for.”

Angel watched him as he spoke, finally giving her meal up as a lost cause. “Sure. Won’t be all you’re leaving with, though.” 

Rhys scoffed, desperate to switch gears before he opened himself up to the _daughter_ of the man he literally couldn’t get out of his head. “Leaving? I don’t think that’s on the table.”

“You’ll be leaving,” Angel said confidently. “I just don’t think any of us will be happy about it.”

Rhys stuffed his uneaten food back into the brown take-out bag, his appetite sapped. “You’re talking about Gaige.”

To his surprise, Angel’s confidence seemed to waver as her cheeks heated. “That wasn’t...entirely what I meant. But yeah.” A pause, where Rhys allowed her to bite back her embarrassment, and she let out a heavy breath. “She wants to... ‘hang out’ tonight. I have to ask Dad still, and I’m sure he’s going to assign half the security team to accompany us in the unlikely event he agrees, but… I don’t have a single idea what she wants to do! She just asked me to _show her around_ , but I--”

“You’re thinking about it too much,” Rhys interrupted. “Seriously. It’s Gaige. You could walk her through an abandoned warehouse and she’ll _find_ shit to talk about. She just wants your attention.”

Angel pulled a face, like Rhys had just insulted her in a language she had forgotten she knew, but said nothing in response. Rhys allowed the comfortable silence that followed, figuring Angel had her own musings to work through. He tried not to let his mind drift to Jack, but it was a losing battle -- there were shadows of thoughts in his head, whispers of emotions he had no reason to be feeling, and each new revelation came at the cost of too many things: his appetite, his comfort, his sense of security and perpetual understanding of the way the world worked. 

Finally, after being unable to swallow around the lump of apprehension in his throat, Rhys pushed the nagging emotions to the back of his mind, trying to find contentment in Angel’s clear comfort of his companionship. She had begun talking again, as though it were a new experience and she wanted to sample everything it had to offer. She babbled about the bistro, and the lady that worked there who always gave her a free brownie that Angel would kindly accept, only to pass off to her personal security. She spoke passionately about something called a “cat,” and how she thought they were wonderful, but they didn’t exist in this system. She didn’t mind that Rhys wasn’t answering, but now and then she would look up, as if unsure she still had his attention, and gave a wobbly smile of thankfulness when he nodded at her to continue. 

Nearly an hour passed before Angel’s lecture about how suffocating long sleeves were was interrupted by Jack violently throwing his office door open. He glanced first towards Angel, who was in the middle of pointing her fork at Rhys accusingly, as though _he_ was personally responsible for the manufacturing of full-sleeved garments, to Rhys himself, who was watching her with idle amusement. 

Jack glared at them both. 

“Gettin’ real cozy? Enjoying your quaint little breakfast?”

“Brought you some,” Angel said cheerfully, sliding a now-cold breakfast platter towards the edge of the desk, as though Jack might actually be inclined to sit and join them. 

Jack sneered at the black container, which didn’t affect Angel in the slightest as she tossed her empty one back into the bag. Rhys, somehow comforted by Angel’s ability to see straight through her dad’s forced bitterness, didn’t even flinch as Jack’s angry expression landed on him. 

“Thought I told you to work.”

“Yeah yeah,” Rhys said offhandedly, pushing out his chair to stand. “You say jump, I bitch about how high, yadda yadda. Thank you for breakfast, Angel.”

Angel grinned at him as she gathered up their leftovers, and Rhys was happy to note that the blush she’d always get when he spoke delicately to her had all but evaporated, replaced by something warmer, more personable. It spoke volumes towards their growth, and Rhys was struck by the need to do something for her. He wasn’t sure how much of Jack’s mercy came from her disapproving glares, but he was willing to bet that his team wouldn’t have been treated half as well as they were if Angel hadn’t been chastising Jack behind closed doors. 

“Before you leave, Angel. I was hoping you might escort me to Hyperion’s engineering facilities tonight.”

Angel glanced back at him curiously, but before she could answer, Jack scoffed and levelled Rhys with an eye roll and the sharp look of annoyed disbelief. “Hey, Rhysie? Did you lodge a chip too far into your brain? You wanna go somewhere, you can use one of the numbskulls outside your suite door. She’s not your friend, and she won’t be _escorting_ you anywhere.”

Angel glared furiously at Jack, and Rhys ran interference quickly, desperate to avoid his little plan becoming a heated family argument. 

“Yeah, Jack, I dunno. You seen the way these Hyperion ‘numbskulls’ look at me? I’ll be dead as soon as they get me alone.”

Jack’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You took care of Vasquez just fine.”

“Yeah, I had a _gun.”_ He paused, not above using a pleasantly salacious memory to blindside an argument. “...And your permission.” 

Jack swallowed hard, and Rhys could feel the faint traces of _lustirritationamusementgreed_ pacing around in the back of his skull, watching with poorly disguised fascination as all of them went completely hidden under Jack’s mask. 

Jack’s fingers flexed, and Rhys knew he was struggling with a decision. On one hand, leaving Rhys for the wolves would normally be his first (and most favorable) option. But if something happened to Rhys, something equally unappealing happened to _Jack,_ which left option one as a non-negotiable write-off. 

“What the fuck do you need from down there anyway?” Jack snapped, and Rhys bit back a smile, thrilled with how easy it was becoming to read the man in front of him. 

“I made a promise to Captain Scarlett, remember? I’d rather _not_ be on her shit list for failing to deliver. And if I’m honest, I’d rather like to impress her. She's very... _exotic,_ isn't she? Dangerous.”

Rhys was pushing it, he knew. And if Jack’s annoyed expression was anything to go by, he was being a little too obvious. Luckily, Angel had decided she was tired of being interrupted and broke the bubbling tension between them. 

“I’m happy to escort Dr. Northcutt, Handsome Jack,” she said serenely, slipping seamlessly into a professional grace that garnered her far more respect than her slightly confused, still-learning alter ego did. “Shall we say... eight tonight?”

“I’m going with you then,” Jack blurted out, the words pouring from him like they'd only been half-considered. A flinch, then Jack’s speedy, if only slightly flustered recovery: “I’m better security than half the idiots I employ anyway. Besides, I don’t want you mucking around with Hyperion shit, putting your grubby little Atlas fingerprints on everything.”

Rhys scoffed. “Trust me, I don’t plan on leaving any DNA here for you to exploit.”

He regretted the words almost as instantly as he had foolishly expelled them. With a small wince, he forced himself to meet Jack’s eyes, if only to avoid looking over at the large, freshly scrubbed desk where he’d left more than enough DNA just the day before.

“I’ll be bringing Gaige with me,” he challenged, trying to prevent the smirk on Jack’s face becoming audible teasing. 

It worked, and Jack’s smile wilted at the idea of more Atlas crew. “That nutso body-hacker? What the hell for?”

Rhys waved his hand dismissively, trying to latch onto the professionalism that used to come so easily. “She said she needs to do some repairs on her Deathtrap. Immediate ones. Something about the energy core becoming unstable enough to risk blowing a hole in the side of the ship.”

“That sounds serious,” Angel breathed, and it was so clearly a feigned reaction to Rhys's outlandish excuse that he couldn’t withhold the snort of laughter. 

“It is. Very serious. Eight tonight sounds perfect, Angel, thank you.”

She gave him a quick grin before picking up her bag and making a swift exit, ensuring the door was completely closed and the lock engaged behind her. 

A beat of silence, filled only by the gentle rush of the water features that adorned the misleadingly calm office, before Jack crossed his arms heavily across his chest.

“You’re such a fucking liar, Atlas.”

It was said with complete disdain, but Rhys could feel the faint pings of amusement, soft and reassuring, and couldn’t help but smile. 

“So you’ve said.”

He turned and walked back towards his desk, feeling far better about the situation than he had only a few hours ago. Significantly better than he had last night. And while he was smart enough to realize it was only a small reprieve from a colossally larger problem, he was selfish enough to take the good when he could get it. 

Jack stared at him suspiciously, as if waiting for the punchline. “What, you want to finally work?”

“Yes, Jack,” Rhys smiled, flopping into his chair and turning his screens back on. “So… how high?”

 

///

 

“She _what?!”_

Vaughn glared at Rhys through his glasses, which were still pinging company alerts in the topmost corner. “Hey, don’t yell at _me._ You know I don’t have any control over what that woman does.”

Rhys put his hands in his hair, trying to quell the tide of unpleasant fear that was churning in his stomach. He’d come back from his day spent with Jack’s quips and cohesion, both of which had left him raw and flustered, to find everyone in the suite gone. Luckily Vaughn had shown up only minutes after, bags in his hands and an annoyed guard at his side, but Rhys hadn’t exactly been thrilled with the explanation of everyone’s absences. 

Sasha, Axton, and Gaige had vanished towards the food court over four hours previously, though Vaughn swore he had heard Axton’s baritone laughter somewhere near the marketplace on his way back. It could easily explain why Rhys's company expense card was still missing.

But Fiona. Fiona had--

“I thought she _hated_ that guy!”

“Fiona kind of hates everyone,” Vaughn offered peacefully, digging around in his purchases. “I’m not fully convinced she doesn’t _still_ hate me and you. Besides, she’s bored.”

“Why couldn’t she do what you guys were doing?” Rhys lamented, gesturing pointedly at the bags scattered across the floor. “Like...explore, or something. Run up my card. Eat weird space food.”

“You know she hates space food,” Vaughn repeated, like a mantra.

Rhys groaned and turned away, trying not to imagine what kind of trouble Fiona could end up in on Pandora. A small voice in the back of his head, thankfully, his _own_ voice, pleasantly reminded him that their lockdown was entirely his fault, and if Fiona was cagey back in the Edens, she was a bonafide runaway risk aboard Helios. If she was gone, it was on him. 

“This is my fault,” he said aloud to the room. “We’re all stuck here until I can figure this shit out, and Fiona--”

“--is a big girl,” Vaughn interrupted with a withering stare. “...who makes her own decisions. You can lay the groundwork all you want, man, but she’s gonna do whatever she wants to do. You don’t have a say there. Not everything happens because of something _you_ did, Rhys.”

Rhys, mildly embarrassed, huffed a non-committal response and sat down on the plush sofa next to Vaughn. “I know that. I’m not saying…. Look, I just mean, I know this sucks for you guys, and I’m sorry.”

Vaughn began pulling out items in earnest, as though looking for something in particular. “Hey, we all agreed to this. ‘The Final Piece’ or whatever we called it back then. And honestly? Being stuffed in a two thousand square foot luxury suite is a hell of a lot better than the scouting you usually have us do. All that dirt and blood and guts and stuff, this is a bit of an upgrade... Ah!”

He pulled out a package decked in an alarming shade of red. Rhys sat up a bit in order to read the flashy branding, courtesy of Hyperion’s overzealous marketing. 

“ _'H_ _yperion Redbar X-2000:’_ Vaughn, did you seriously buy Hyperion branded underwear?”

“Um, I’m sorry,” Vaughn replied sarcastically, “As soon as Atlas starts mass producing this kind of luxury commodity, _I’ll_ start showing some brand loyalty.”

Rhys glared at the offending pack of briefs and wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “I thought you were totally onboard with dropping our tacky homegoods in favor of ‘super dope tech and stuff.’”

“Oh, I am!” Vaughn admonished hurriedly. “But _someone’s_ got to make ultra plush bun holders, Rhys. And according to all the forums, these are the best, galaxy-wide. They literally made up an entire undergarment-related title _just_ to award it to these babies. Don’t tell me that doesn’t leave you curious.”

Rhys stopped, considering. Self-control was never his strong suit. “How many are in that pack?” 

“Five. And they were _expensive,_ bro, let me tell you. Why, you want some?”

“Not a chance,” Rhys snorted, shaking the curiosity from himself before he made any more poor decisions. “If Jack finds out I’ve donned myself in Hyperion _any_ thing, I’ll never live it down.”

Vaughn stopped admiring his purchase and flicked his eyes accusingly towards Rhys. “Why would he find that out?” 

Rhys sighed, his already wracked brain throbbing in annoyance at his slip. “I didn’t mean…. Just--”

“How’d today go, anyway?”

Rhys stared back, his irritation rising. “You’re being super accusatory right now, bro.”

Vaughn sat back, distrustful curiosity still painted across his face as he popped open a package of Hyperion _Triple-buttered popcorn! Guaranteed to only cause violent diarrhea 22% of the time! Handsome Jack lives life dangerously - so should you!_ “Heck yeah I am. I just found out that you’ve been swapping uglies with Handsome Jack--”

“--Vaughn, please, pick a saying and stick with it. You can’t be mixing and matching--”

“--And you’re cooped up with him in that office all day, _and_ you’ve never been very good at self-restraint. So yeah, I’m being super accusatory, bro. You guys done screwing around, or what?”

Rhys didn’t answer, choosing the mature path and looking away with a small pout. 

“Oh my god, Rhys, seriously? What happened to playing--”

“I _am_ playing the game!” Rhys fired back. “It’s just… a different game than we were imagining, okay? Maybe I can, like, use this to my advantage, or--”

“Give me a break, Rhys,” Vaughn snorted, flicking popcorn into his mouth. “You’re a genius, and you’re attractive, sure... but you’re no honeypot. Whatever you’re doing with Jack is about what _you_ want, not about blackmail or extortion or whatever.”

“What I _want_ \--” Rhys interrupted, if only to avoid how heavy Vaughn’s words felt in his gut, “--Is to go home. To get all of us home, back to the Edens, where we can take whatever happened in my head and apply it to something useful. That’s what I want.”

“Sure,” Vaughn shrugged. “But that’s part of your problem, isn’t it? You can’t _learn_ anything from Jack, and wanting something that you can’t utilize for a bigger picture is blowing your head up right now. You don’t know how to deal with it.”

Rhys, mildly stung, flopped back against the cushions. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled. “And even… Look, once the connection is severed, it’ll fade anyway. The want. So it’ll all be back to normal.” 

He could see Vaughn thinking shrewdly beside him, gathering up the last twenty years of knowledge on Rhys's personality and choices to buoy his argument to alarming heights, and Rhys changed the subject abruptly to avoid being subjected to more scathing commentary. 

“I’m heading out to the labs with Gaige tonight. Gotta whip up that thing for Scarlett before she starts literally hunting me down, which Angel assures me is something that can totally happen. She’s coming too, wants to see Gaige.”

Vaughn chewed slowly, allowing Rhys to change the subject, but not the tone. “You know we’ll have to leave, right? That whatever’s going on between them -- it’ll end.”

Rhys made a noncommittal noise. “What, you’re so sure Jack will let us leave alive? Surprisingly optimistic, even for you.”

“I dunno. Seeing Jack behind the curtain? I don’t think he’d risk starting a war. I don’t think he’d even want to. Dude’s an asshole, no doubt, but he’s too isolated out here to let himself be pulled into the rest of the galaxy.”

“Yeah,” Rhys agreed softly, too many heavy words unable to climb out of his throat. “Yeah, I used to think the rest of the us weren’t ready for someone like him, but… I don’t know. I’m starting to think it’s the other way around.”

Vaughn hummed a vaguely affirmative answer, and held out his bag of popcorn for Rhys to grab a dejected handful. Two decades of friendship had him knowing full well when Rhys’s nerves were too fried to handle any more exposure for the day, and they spent the rest of the fading afternoon reading online advice columns from bad writers and digging shamelessly through Axton’s purchases, once the rest of Atlas had stumbled back in, snickering from some private joke and teasing Vaughn on his new underwear.

For a few hours, it felt like home again.

 

///

 

Hyperion labs weren’t as streamlined as Atlas’s, but what they lacked in innovation, they made up for in volume. Where Atlas had dedicated facilities for particular sciences, Hyperion decks were littered with machines that fulfilled any and all purposes -- likely due to the abhorrent amount of personal projects Hyperion employees were allowed to test. 

Gaige was rambling and prodding various equipment, prying them open to dig around in the wires, and Rhys was determined to let her. Angel, dressed pristinely in the latest Hyperion fashion, was staring at the wild, trash-talking girl as though she would forever be enchanted by Gaige’s very existence. 

Jack, however, was watching her with thinly veiled disgust, like he’d never imagined having to entertain such Pandoran-esque tendencies on the sanctity of his station. 

“This would work reeeeal better if ya used one of those plasmonic components,” Gaige was lecturing, bent over one of the processors with her robotic arm, tracing out whatever optimizations she would have implemented. “You’re losing a _ton_ of power during the light wave transfer.”

“I don’t understand,” Angel said, finally finding an opening to be involved, rather than watching. “The heat output was too much in our early trials, and we figured that the cost of cooling them would outweigh the benefits.”

Gaige grinned at her. “C’mere, Halo. Lemme show you what I did back home.”

Angel hesitated only slightly before her heels tapped across the room, and she tucked her hair behind her ear in a valiant attempt to mimic Gaige’s relaxed posture as she approached the processor. Then, Gaige was off, pointing out the various inefficiencies and how she had helped rectify them back at Atlas HQ.

“You put her to work?” Jack asked Rhys, hands stuffed in his pockets like he was an older brother, stuck babysitting his siblings when he could be out getting wasted. “I thought you’d be against child labor, Atlas.”

Rhys moved away towards the far end of the lab, wanting to give the two girls some semblance of privacy. Besides, he had his own work to do. “The only ‘labor’ she gives me is the money I have to pay the clean up crew to redo her lab every few weeks. For every good product she perfects, I lose tens of thousands of dollars of machinery.”

 “Hardly a good trade.”

Rhys shrugged. “She’s safe with me, so I’ll take the loss. Her work will make decent money anyway, once it’s been fine-tuned… And besides, she’s good for us. For the team.”

He chanced a direct look at Jack, and was delighted to see the man’s face scrunch up in disbelief. Jack’s maladjustment to social needs was an easily exploitable asset, and Rhys wasn’t above talking passionately about his family if it kept putting Handsome Jack off his game. 

“Your _team,_ right,” Jack scoffed. “Bunch of Pandoran natives and a human calculator. You make _how_ much money, and you couldn’t afford better people?”

Rhys felt a flash of annoyance, coupled by the sharp, intruding memory of Jack staring down at his ECHO, where Tim’s name was typing out a very specific request. 

“Big words coming from the guy that let Fiona tag along on a covert mission,” Rhys muttered darkly. “You recognize her value in keeping your best man alive, but not enough to respect her. Seems to be the running trend for Hyperion.”

“Yeah? And how much respect does she have for you, Atlas, if she ran off without getting your authorization?”

The dismissal of Fiona’s own self-worth stirred something heated in Rhys. He enjoyed teasing banter as much as the next guy, but Jack was determined to ratchet every interaction up past the point of humor. It was pathetic. It was _tiresome._

“That’s not how respect works,” Rhys scoffed, his mood plummeting as he turned to stare Jack down. “For fuck’s sake, Jack, you’re so goddamn paranoid that someone is going to leave you that you’re practically gift wrapping them for everyone else.”

The pause after the sagacious accusation was almost tragic. Jack didn’t answer, his expression hidden beneath the pristine dissimulation of his mask, but Rhys could recognize the waves of unease billowing from him, just another ripple that Rhys forced out by diving too deep into the center. The fraying edges of Jack’s fear grated along Rhys’s nerves, and for a brief, miserable moment, Rhys’s sympathy outweighed his validation.

“You gotta let people go if you love them,” he muttered, turning back around and thinking worriedly of Fiona, out on Pandora with Hyperion for protection. “Kick them out, live the world, let them learn. Give them a choice. You’ll never feel satisfied that they’re with you because they _want_ to be, if you never present another option.”

“If you’re talking about Angel, she needs my protection,” Jack said finally, following close behind Rhys as they approached one of the 3D printers. “She’s vulnerable. That Eridium inside her, it’s a volatile fricken mess, and it’ll kill her. Or does that not matter to you?”

Rhys was used to Jack’s dismissal by now, and it was becoming easier to see through the cover to the insecurities underneath. The exterior was exceedingly fragile, despite Jack’s obsessive polishing, and he was ready to crack. 

Again, Rhys was bowled over by how _different_ this man was in person. Handsome Jack was legendary, but relatively illusive, hidden behind bandit carnage and a corporate smile. Pandora was a different world than the Eden’s, and where Rhys saw pride in his candid expression of his own faults, dealing with them on a healthy balancing scale, Jack saw his own shortcomings as a weakness to be hid away, stuffed under a persona used as such a desperate crutch that Jack fully believed the cracks in his making would only make the inadequacies glare brighter.

“Stop lashing out, Jack, you know what I meant,” Rhys sighed, fiddling with the control panel that was flashing a red _AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED_ warning at him. “Hey, give me access, could you?”

Jack glowered petulantly at him, looking somehow smaller in the room without a fan club gazing at him in the background. He flicked a device open from his wrist and inputted a series of taps, before the machine blinked green. 

AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED.  
USER LOGIN: **SWEATER_SPUNK**

“Real mature, _Handsome Jack_ ,” Rhys muttered indignantly, but the edges of his lips were twitching. “Besides, it was your sweater and your spunk, which makes it one-hundred percent _your_ login, not mine. Can we go for something a little more accurate?”

Jack frowned, as though realizing the validity of the statement. “You’re such a…” Jack paused, then smiled weakly to himself. He tapped a few more buttons, and the screen flashed red for a moment before glowing green once more. 

AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED.  
USER LOGIN:  **TIGHT_ASS**

Rhys snorted. “Clever. Solid pun. Maybe you can make me a guest name-tag and slap it across my chest. People here will either think I’m a jerk, or I’m advertising.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “It’s really fucking amazing how you can hear a compliment when people insult you, Atlas.”

“Really?” Rhys challenged, turning his back on Jack to start inputting the graphics for the Atlas teleporter into the printer. “The way I see it, I asked for an accurate login, and you gave it to me. You going to tell me it’s not true?”

He didn’t even have to turn around to feel Jack’s mood switch-flick though as though it had been knocked violently into the gutter. The mild vexation, the distant anxiety, the delicately encroaching humor, all of it took back-burner to the spark of interest that transformed Jack’s brain into something dark and greedy. 

“I dunno, Rhysie,” Jack muttered, stepping closer. “I can’t recall. Might need a refresher.”

Rhys could feel the heat of Jack behind him, not close enough for contact, but near enough to make his intentions known. A slow, heady shiver crawled down Rhys’s spine as a wave of images supplied his brain with enough material to fully bankrupt his entire company and swirl his poster boy imagine down every one of Eden’s drains. 

\--Jack, staring down at him, heat in his eyes as he gripped Rhys’s hips harder, to grind down into him with undeniable purpose--

\--Rhys, below Jack, flushed and shaking, the peak of tattoos urging Jack to run his fingers across his ribs, wondering how far down they went--

“Maybe you can actually get my clothes off me next time,” Rhys muttered, half-terrified of the implications, half-craving them. Without thinking too hard about all the reasons why he shouldn’t, he reached back and fished around until he could grab Jack’s hand, maneuvering it run across the expanse of his thigh. His voice, thick with prurient incitement, gave away every single one of his intentions. “I know how much you appreciate me showing up to work looking like a model employee, but I feel much better without the barrier.”

Jack’s deep inhale behind him sent Rhys’s heart straight into his throat. He wasn’t sure whether Jack would be into an auditory tease, considering his impressive arrogance and tactile needs, but his hand ran smoothly down Rhys’s leg and he pressed closer-- close enough to rest his chin on Rhys's shoulder under the guise of looking down at the printer. 

“Oh, are you a model employee now, Rhysie?” He brought his other hand up to tug gently at the tie Rhys still wore loosely around his neck. “Was that before or after you lied to your trigger-happy boss and tried to make your little getaway?”

“Afterwards, obviously,” Rhys replied smugly, though it turned into a hiss as Jack’s hand left his thigh to cup the growing bulge in his pants. Focusing on entering his schematics was proving difficult, especially when Jack pressed up fully against him, and he could feel something hard and promising against his ass. 

 _“Obviously,_ _”_   Jack mocked, and moved to pin Rhys’s wrists against his sides. “Alright, smartass, let’s see you work _properly._ You want to boast about all that Eridian tech in your head, and I want to see you use it. No hands.”

To drive his point home, Jack pinned Rhys’s arms between them, creating enough of a buffer between their bodies to momentarily lift the fog of arousal from his mind. Jack wanted to see him navigate the inner mechanisms of the interface with nothing but his Eye, that much was clear. His reasons were less so. It seemed unlikely that he wanted Rhys to fail, and the more he learned from his forced interaction, the more Rhys realized that Jack enjoyed competence. He _really_ enjoyed it. 

And Rhys was perpetually ready to show off. 

So with as much composure as he could muster with the feeling of Jack’s heat so close behind him, Rhys began the arduous process of directing the printer remotely. Most of it, luckily, was automated, but Rhys had always intended on putting intricate details and customizations for Captain Scarlett into the design and function. Digitally, he drew up additional schematics with a single thought, altering them to be compatible with Hyperion’s software while simultaneously compiling a list of the additional materials he’d need to run through the synthesiser. 

“I need a handful of carbon nanotubes, and something to circumvent the unstable field flux associated with biological transport,” he muttered, twitching his fingers in Jack’s grasp to get his attention. “Can you handle that, or should I find a less distractible engineer?”

Jack’s thoughts were a beacon of controlled chaos at the edge of his mind, but the rich satisfaction of amusement and fondness that began to bloom drowned out most of the scattered emotions. Rhys could feel the smirk of Jack’s expression through nothing but the huff of laughter and the warning squeeze to his wrist. 

“Hands to yourself, Atlas,” he reminded lowly, before releasing Rhys to stride across the lab towards the supply cabinets. 

Rhys watched him freely, Jack’s retreating back giving him the opportunity to really take him in on a level he hadn’t expected to expose himself to. To an observing party, they might look like colleagues, two sides of the coin that paid for every technological wonder to come out of the galaxy in the past six years. They might even look like _friends,_ with Jack’s real daughter and Rhys’s pseudo-daughter giggling and throwing around chunks of circuit boards at the far end of the otherwise abandoned lab. 

Rhys stowed away the strange pang of contentment in his chest and focused on his task, fighting through the urge to pull the interface towards him and bring his hands into the equation. The urge to prove himself was pivotal, and despite everything he’d done to exhibit his prowess to Jack, he didn’t feel satisfied. There was still so much to substantiate, so much to say. So many things disregarded. All of it had been tainted and tangled by a situation that turned every intention into something insincere. 

Jack returned with a stockpile of supplies, many of which Rhys hadn’t asked for. Jack only arched his eyebrow, as if daring Rhys to question his intellect and instinct, and began soldering things together with furious mutterings about Scarlett’s lack of good taste. Rhys said nothing, but had to bite back a smile at the absolute simplicity of unsaid words. Together, they worked in tandem, with Rhys constructing the shell of the teleporter while siphoning off blueprints to a datapad for Jack to sneer over. 

Eventually, the low thrum of arousal that had permeated the density of Jack’s waves faded, replaced by single-minded focus. Rhys watched as Jack’s fingers worked over polymer-bound wires and tiny circuits like he had crafted their existence by hand; like he understood them better than he understood any other aspect of life. 

Rhys watched long after the fabricator had alerted him to his finished mold. He watched long after Angel and Gaige had finished fine-tuning the processor (and shoved the broken parts into a corner), and were instead watching ECHOnet videos and trying to order hamburgers from the kitchens. Rhys watched until Jack finally felt his stare, finally felt the gradually rising pulse of Rhys’s intrigue. 

The older man paused, looking over at Rhys without a hint of the malice he usually carried like a burden across his features. “You ready to use your hands, show off?”

Rhys smiled, and moved forward to help. 

 

///

 

If Rhys was considered an expert in his field, then surely, Jack was a savant in his. He took Rhys’s blueprints and built upon them, bettered them in ways that Rhys’s engineers hadn’t had the experience of failure to consider. Jack’s process was streamlined and beautiful, practical and precise in a way that no other aspect of his life seemed to be. And as well as Jack commanded a group of followers, as well as he directed troops and fielded combat and motivated advancement, the weariness that came from playing CEO was not lost on anyone close enough to see it. Rhys loved his lectures, his conference calls and finely-tuned business etiquette (far more than he enjoyed weapon development and the stench of blood as he struggled to learn the nuances of wastelander survival), while Jack clearly couldn’t even stomach a tie. He supposed that he and Jack differed in that regard. Two sides of the same coin. Universal currency, decidedly different faces. 

So for Rhys, watching Jack work on something he truly enjoyed was a liberating experience. The stress and anxiety had been siphoned from him, leaving Jack square-shouldered and focused, his eyes alight with a fiery urgency that seemed to only spark within the souls of creators. Rhys was subjugated to nothing more than workshop assistant, passing Jack tools and providing his corporeal form as a sounding board for Jack to wonder aloud at, waiting for the answers to come back to him, as though Rhys repeating them with slight intonation had somehow unlocked their mysteries. 

For an hour, Jack forgot to hate him, and in that peace, Rhys forgot to keep himself sequestered on the shore of his remote island, where he kept his professional intentions safely harbored. He found himself swimming further and further away from the promises he’d made to keep himself from drowning in Jack’s seas, to let the tide of fascination and affinity pull him under. A calm and serene undertow, dangerous in its ease of submission. 

Rhys made jokes, and Jack laughed, something foreign yet familiar wrapped up in their delicate understanding. Jack guided Rhys through his work, their constant vacillating desires and tempers all but forgotten with the lack of outside influence. It was only after Jack began attaching the inner workings of his creation to Rhys’s mold did Rhys release their easy conversation hadn’t once been built upon underhanded flirtations, nor a ravaging need to outdo. 

The knowledge blossomed a realization in his gut, something he immediately tried to quell. The last thing he needed was for Jack to know that Rhys’s interest in him wasn’t as carnal as it had been previously. Hurriedly, he racked his brain for a studious topic, far too aware that half the problems he currently faced stemmed from keeping secrets. His entire relationship with Jack was built upon dishonesty, and a selfish desire to impress. 

Hell, the first thing Rhys had ever done in Jack’s presence, was to--

“What are your plans with Roland?” he blurted suddenly, leaving the filter behind in his urgency to keep softer thoughts out of their connection. 

Jack’s fingers didn’t halt on their progress, but a stiffness returned to his shoulders. The world was seeping back through the cracks of their barrier they had built, and instantly, Rhys _hated_ that he had taken that sanctuary from him. 

“Nothing short-term,” Jack finally replied. “Thought he might tell me where Lilith’s hiding, but there was fat chance of that anyway. He’d sooner plaster his brains on the wall than give her up. Still, she’ll come for him eventually, and when that happens, I can wash my hands of the both of them.”

Jack’s voice flowed through Rhys’s skull, amplifying the feelings behind the words. It was morose, a heavy, sticky feeling that weighed down the entire thought with disillusionment. 

“She’ll come for you, whether you kill Roland or not,” Rhys began hesitantly, careful of toeing the line between Jack’s patience and his pride. “No reason for you _not_ to execute him publicly, especially with the long list of war crimes on his head. That’s more of Hyperion’s style anyway, isn’t it?”

Jack didn’t answer, and instead chose to continue soldering Scarlett’s piece together. A low, warning buzz began to fill the space between them, like the stirring of bees. The lack of response only confirmed Rhys’s speculation. 

“If they’re killed during an assault on Hyperion, no one would question you, would they?” Rhys deduced softly. “Roland’s capture is on _my_ conscience, not yours, and Lilith will leave you no choice when she sets foot on Helios. You want to be absolved of responsibility. Why?”

Jack’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he let the statement lie between them, festering and accusatory, but offered with innocuous intentions. Finally, Jack spoke. 

“I just want them gone.” His voice was unnervingly soft, and he glanced carefully towards the end of the room, where Angel and Gaige were swapping out burger toppings and cycling through vids. “I want Lilith and her white knight out of my life, and off my goddamn planet. Roland knows about Angel, and if he knows, so does Lilith, and what kind of drunken, doped up mess has ever been known to keep a secret? If they die in some ill-advised attempt to overtake my station, no one will fucking blame me for it.”

Rhys watched the girls as they laughed into their meals and fought playfully over who had control of the vids. He thought of what he would do to keep the people he loved alive, and the guilt he felt over jeopardizing their safety. How all the selfish wrongdoing had felt so much like doing everyone a favor -- to bask in the afterglow once the danger had passed. Paving the way towards a future that _Rhys_ had decided they deserved. How he’d dragged everyone through the mud and grime and theatrical lies with him, promising happiness at the end.

“You don’t want to start a war,” Rhys finalized, his heart heavy at the unveiling of his own reckless behavior, and the complications that had arisen from his decisions. How similar his and Jack’s journeys had been, despite their motives. 

“I didn’t care what I had to do to get answers,” Jack finally answered. “I still don’t. Everything I learned about Eridium from that Vault has kept her alive, and I’d do it again tomorrow. I’d do it a thousand times. But Lilith would never understand that. Every day of her pathetic, reckless life, she’s committed the same crimes that she screams are unjust, the same crimes she condemns _me_ for. Her and her bandits have run this planet into the fucking ground, and somehow, I’m the villain for finding purpose in it. I just…” Jack paused, tightening his hands into fists before relaxing them, as though he could forcibly ease the tension out of his body. “They won’t leave this place, they won’t let advancement happen, and they constantly sabotage my facilities, murder my employees, and spead havoc and misery. They have to die. But I’ll be damned if I drag Angel into a war just to satisfy their egos.”

And maybe, Rhys let himself get too entwined within Jack’s ardent admission; maybe he wanted to forge a connection in that moment that didn’t harken to neural waves and outside forces; maybe he was just a fucking impassioned idiot. Whatever it was, the words were out of Rhys’s mouth before he could consider their consequences.

“I captured Roland. If Lilith wants retribution for that, I’m as entangled in this as you are. Whatever help Atlas can offer, it’s yours, Jack.”

Jack’s eyes shot up to his, keen and steadfast, as though he were ready to tear Rhys’s words apart and stitch them back together to find nefarious meaning within them. But there was no distrust to be found within Jack’s mind, no extraneous waves of skepticism that would crumble Rhys’s walls until he felt pathetic with exposure.

Jack, for the first time since they met, _believed_ him. The knowledge lit something bright and engulfing in his chest, and Rhys was ready to let it consume him. 

Jack nodded his simple thanks, a gesture that words would only downplay, and handed Rhys his finished product to look over. 

“If you’re happy with it, shove it in that air-painter in the corner. Your blueprint’s already been loaded up, but it’ll take a few hours. I’ll have it sent over to Scarlett’s ship in the morning, and maybe she won’t kill you for your shit taste in design and color.”

Rhys smiled weakly at the comment. He felt emotionally drained, yet filled to bursting with satisfaction, and the dichotomy waged a war inside his body, leaving him exhausted and unbalanced, as though he were on the cusp of something profound. He wanted to move closer, to explore the beginnings of something he didn’t dare to name, but Jack was staring at him with a challenge in his expression, daring Rhys to give him a reason to shove him back again, and Rhys wouldn’t risk damaging the progress they’d made. 

Finally, Jack turned away. “Angel!” He called, sounding more _Dad_ than Rhys could ever imagine a CEO being, and the brunette sitting awkwardly on the floor in her fitted dress jumped up immediately at Jack’s call. “Time to go, get your stuff.”

She followed Jack’s orders diligently, and Gaige watched the display curiously from the floor, picking at the leftover fries on Angel’s abandoned takeaway plate. Once Angel had gathered her jacket and ECHOtab, she hovered, unsure. 

Gaige had wisely stayed on the floor, avoiding putting Angel into the hug-or-not-hug situation in front of her dad, but she still sensed the distress. She grinned up at the flustered girl, all casual understanding and good natured acceptance. “Hey, I’ll send you the link to that video I mentioned, the one about that haunted town on Illium. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Angel sighed gratefully. “That sounds great. I’ll, uh, I’ll talk to you then. Goodnight, Gaige. Good night, Dr. Northcutt,” Angel added, shooting Rhys an apologetic grimace as she once again mixed up her professional and personal persona. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Angel,” he responded, inclining his head respectfully to try and let her know that he’d accept her goodbye regardless of what titles she chose to use. Jack placed a hand on her shoulder and gently began to steer her towards the door, his expression heavy with thought, though Rhys was too exhausted to read him properly, to try and dig deeper. 

As Jack entered the code for the pressurized door and the outside world was once again consuming them, Rhys couldn’t help the need for something _finalized,_ if only to quell the uncertainty in his gut. He tried not to think about how desperately he didn’t want this night to end, and how afraid he was that he’d lose _this_ Jack in the morning, finding only the mask there to greet him in that large, extravagant office. 

“Good night, Jack,” he all but blurted, and it the gravity of the words made it linger in the atmosphere longer than the phrase had any right to. Jack paused, his arm across his daughter’s shoulders, and he met Rhys’s eyes briefly. Just long enough for Rhys to feel the ripple of decisions that Jack was diligently calculating in his head. 

Finally, by the grace of whatever gods were left in the galaxy, Jack muttered out, “Good night, Rhys,” and disappeared through the door with Angel at his side. 

 

///

 

Angel reached up to grip at her father’s fingers where they lingered protectively on her shoulder. She found comfort in his warmth, his guiding hand, even if the man himself seemed torn, his expression lost in the after-hours darkness of the hallway. 

She squeezed his hand and leaned further into his side, replaying the events of the evening. Gaige’s friendship, so new and tender and bright, filled a gap she hadn’t known was missing. Her smirk would find a place in Angel’s dreams that night. And as comforting as that knowledge was, a twinge of fear tainted it - the unknown. An uncertain future. 

It was the same pain that graced her father’s face, something only _she_ knew how to accurately read, and while she hadn’t been paying attention to her father and Rhys’s interactions, she knew their goodbye was different. That too many words had been said in so few syllables. 

“I won’t talk about it if you don’t,” she offered softly, her voice ringing gently down the hall as they stepped into the elevator together. A compromise, until they could figure out the complexity of their own emotions. 

He sighed gratefully, pulling her further into his side as he swiped his keycard and entered the code for their penthouse. 

“Sometimes, I don’t think I deserve you, Angel.”

 

///

 

The door hissed shut behind the father and daughter duo, and Gaige instantly turned her viciously bemused stare onto Rhys. 

“What?” Rhys asked weakly, standing dejectedly beside the workstation he had so recently shared with Handsome Jack, holding their finished project like a timeless relic in his hands. 

“ _Good night, Jack,”_ Gaige mocked, grinning as she popped an abandoned pickle into her mouth. “We are _definitely_ talking about that, Rhys.”

Rhys only swallowed and nodded, weakly cursing himself for prioritizing communication in his inner circle. Slowly, he made his way over to the machine, deposited the teleporter, and submitted himself to Gaige’s questions and observations as they packed up and made their way back to the suite. 

Tried as he could to block it out, Jack’s ongoing and hesitant compliance still lingered in his mind for the remainder of the night, bolstered by the fuzzy feeling of alcohol that Rhys couldn’t taste, and weighed down by the sharp and sudden sting of panicked repudiation that he was beginning to learn all too well. 


End file.
